Page 22 of The Tempting of Thomas Carrick
Thomas frowned and led the way to the front door. Forrester followed. Lucilla set down her herb packets and hurried in the men’s wake. Wiping her hands on her apron, Mrs. Forrester brought up the rear.
Thomas opened the front door, looked outside—and inwardly swore. Leaving the door open, he walked out and down the step to the heavy, old-fashioned curricle that had come to a halt, rocking on its springs, before the farmhouse.
The reins in his hands, Sean met Thomas’s eyes, a warning in his.
Beside Sean, swathed in a blanket over a thick overcoat, sat Manachan. Large though he was, in contrast to Sean’s hale and hearty form, Manachan looked frail. His pallor was more pronounced in the clear morning light, and his crippling lack of energy showed in the effort he had to expend to simply raise a hand in greeting.
Thomas rounded the horse and went to Manachan’s side. He gripped the hand Manachan had raised. “Sir—we didn’t expect you.”
Manachan nodded weakly, yet nevertheless managed to infuse the action with his customary dismissive irascibility. “The Bradshaws,” he all but wheezed. “How are they?” Using Thomas’s grip for leverage, Manachan started the process of getting himself out of the carriage.
For a moment, Thomas was fully absorbed with balancing his uncle’s weight; the last thing he wanted was for his laird to fall on his face.
Lucilla had taken in Manachan’s state in one swift glance; she didn’t need to see more to know the old man was seriously ill. What the devil had happened to him? But he was still The Carrick, the laird, and despite the inadvisability of him having come out all this way, he was behaving appropriately—as a laird should.
Glancing at Forrester, she saw that he was as shocked by Manachan’s state as she was, but he wasn’t hiding it as well. Moving past him, she stepped off the stoop and circled the horse to where Thomas was endeavoring to keep Manachan upright. “The Bradshaws are much improved,” she stated.
Manachan had been looking down at his own feet; he hadn’t seen her approach. At her words, he glanced up at her from under beetling brows—but he recognized her instantly, which gave her hope for his condition.
“You, heh, miss? I heard your mother was from home.”
“She is.” Stepping to Manachan’s other side, Lucilla calmly twined her arm in his. “Thomas fetched me, and I’ve treated the Bradshaws—all of them.” She glanced at the couple on the stoop. “And now the Forresters have come and will keep watch over the family. They should be entirely recovered in a few days.”
Between them, she and Thomas managed to guide, steer, and support Manachan into the house. They eased him down onto the sofa before the fire; he sat half slumped, laboring to catch his breath. Forrester had busied himself stoking the fading fire in the hearth, coaxing it into a blaze. At Lucilla’s suggestion, Mrs. Forrester had rushed off to make a pot of tea.
Leaving Thomas and Forrester to explain what they would to Manachan, Lucilla followed Mrs. Forrester into the kitchen and set about searching for biscuits.
She found a crock filled with a mixture of biscuits of various types. She started hunting through it, pulling out the shortbread, softer and more suitable for a man in Manachan’s state.
Mrs. Forrester glanced through the open archway at the men, then brought an empty plate to Lucilla. Standing beside her as she arranged the shortbread on the plate, Mrs. Forrester whispered, “I had noideathe poor laird was so low. I’m sure Forrester didn’t have any clue, either.”
“Nor did I.” Lucilla glanced at Mrs. Forrester. “No one in the Vale has heard anything about Manachan being ill.”
Mrs. Forrester lifted a shoulder. “We knew he was ailing—but there’s ailing andailing, as you would know.” She shook her head. “He was always such a…well,vigorousman. It’s sad to see him so…pulled down.”
“Indeed.” Lucilla was already considering what to do about that. Now she’d seen how unwell Manachan was, there was no question as to where her duty lay. Manachan was The Carrick, the laird, and he lived under the Lady’s protection, regardless of whether he accepted that or not.
She picked up the plate she’d piled with shortbread and walked back into the main room in time to see Thomas, seated in one armchair, lean closer to Manachan and quietly ask, “Are you all right?”
The concern in his tone, the anxiety in his face, spoke clearly of the depth of his worry for his uncle. She moved closer and offered Manachan the plate. “We’ll have the tea ready in a moment.”
Manachan nodded and lifted one of the shortbreads from the plate. He moved slowly, with will and thought required to perform even that simple act.
Lucilla glanced at Thomas, but his gaze was on Manachan. Looking back at Manachan, she asked, “Has Thomas told you about Joy Burns?”
Thomas murmured, “I did.”
“Bad business,” Manachan muttered around his first bite of shortbread. His gaze was fixed on the flames in the hearth. After a moment, he swallowed, then said, his words not quite distinct, “She was clan—she’d been with us all her life.”
Lucilla turned as Mrs. Forrester bustled up with the tea tray. When the farmwife glanced inquiringly at her, Lucilla nodded for her to pour. They handed around the cups, and Lucilla sat in the other armchair. The Forresters retreated to the kitchen, uncomfortable in the company of those they regarded as their betters, at least when it came to taking tea.
Thomas’s attention was on Manachan, on the struggle to get the teacup from saucer to lip. Lucilla waited until Manachan had taken a long swallow, then quietly said, “I know Joy had an apprentice. Do you know if she’s ready to step into Joy’s shoes?”
Manachan didn’t move his head, but cast her another of his assessing glances. A minute ticked by; she waited patiently, her gaze locked with his.
Then he humphed. “As you say, Joy’s been training another—Alice Watts.”
Lucilla knew the family. “The midwife’s daughter.”
