Grayson called down, “Gem is riding back to get one. Tell Barnaby it won’t be long now.”
Barnaby’s head hurt worse than when P.C. once put out her foot and he stumbled into a briar patch. He felt nausea swim in his belly. No, he wouldn’t throw up. He wouldn’t. He opened his mouth, but only a whisper came out. “Mr. Ramsey, you’re here. Thank you, sir.”
“As I said, Pickle brought me here straightaway.” He held the boy against him and began repeating words over and over, the same words, like a chant. Barnaby didn’t understand, but soon his head no longer felt like it would jump off his neck and roll away. He no longer wanted to throw up his innards.
Slowly, with Mr. Ramsey’s help, Barnaby managed to pull himself onto his knees. He cleared his throat and gave it his all. “I’m all right, sir.” Pause, then he burst out, “Sir, it was a branch, and it whacked me right in the head, tossed me over Pickle’s rear parts, and I fell and started rolling, down and down, and then I guess I hit a rock. Will I live, sir?”
“Oh yes, Barnaby, I daresay you will live to be a hundred. Don’t worry now. We’ll have you home and in bed in a trice.”
And it wasn’t an hour later the group returned with Barnaby, held close in Grayson’s arms, Pickle walking beside Battle, who didn’t seem to mind the small pony periodically poking his nose against his neck.
P.C. burst out of the hall, running down the front steps, her skirts hiked up above her knees, Pip on her heels. “Barnaby! Are you all right? Where did you hide, you looby? You will not die. I won’t allow it. Think of the future, our future.”
Barnaby groaned. “She sounds all worried, Mr. Sherbrooke, but I know when I’m all right again, I won’t want to live after P.C.’s done with me.”
“Don’t worry, Barnaby. If she yells at you, tell her you feel faint and for her to stroke your brow with rose water. She’ll forget she wants to pound you, all right?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
The next morning
Grayson knew, as did every other Englishman, that in England, if you predicted rain, it was rare you’d be wrong. He stood at the large window in his bedchamber, staring at the rain slashing against the glass. He thought of the panic all the adults had felt when Barnaby had gone missing, thought about Mr. Ramsey and how he’d walked with Pickle, Barnaby’s pony, how he’d seemed to know exactly what to do. Well, it was over. Barnaby had spent a restful night, with Aunt Alex’s dose of laudanum, and he was quite fine this morning. P.C. had sat beside him, stroking his forehead, and Pip had offered to play guessing games with him so his brain would keep working. All was well. Still, the bone-deep fear remained.
He stared at the cascading rain. It was just as well. He didn’t want to take any chances with Barnaby. Better he stay quiet today. He’d still worried, wondered if they should fetch the Sherbrooke doctor, until the Virgin Bride had assured him Barnaby was fine. He believed she’d spent the night hovering over him.
His uncle Douglas’s valet, Mortimer, was assisting him, which he appreciated. Ponsonby, his own rheumy-eyed valet—who was always telling him he planned to retire to the seaside, even though he was reminded he already lived near the sea coast—hadn’t come with them, since walking up and down stairs pained him. After Mortimer assisted Grayson into his coat, Grayson thanked him and took himself to the nursery. He paused. No sound of children shouting, arguing, laughing. He heard nothing at all. He felt immediate alarm and opened the schoolroom door. Mr. Ramsey was reading at his desk. He looked up to see Grayson, nodded in welcome. He said in a quiet voice, “Barnaby is fine, even ate a large breakfast with P.C. and Pip. I offered to help Barnaby dress, but he wouldn’t hear of it. They’ll be out in a moment.” He paused, smiled. “I believe Pip told him and P.C. ghost stories, the same stories you’d told him when he was young, which he isn’t now because he’s five.”
Grayson laughed. “Yes, my son, the old man.” Grayson turned and quietly opened Pip’s door. He was seated on the side of his small bed, pulling on his boots. Grayson leaned down to straighten his collar and kissed him. “Barnaby is fine, so no more worrying. I’ll be going down to breakfast, Pip. I’ll see you soon.”
When he went back into the schoolroom, he said to Mr. Ramsey, “When the children are ready for polite company, please let me know. I believe it best Barnaby rest today. I know a word game they might enjoy playing. I imagine my aunt Alex knows more games to keep them from driving all of us mad.” He added, looking toward the rain splashing against the schoolroom windows, “I’m glad it’s raining. Otherwise, we could have a riot on our hands.”
“I fancy the rain won’t last much longer,” Olafar said matter-of-factly. “The Virgin Bride assured me Barnaby would be fine. We are not to worry.”
Grayson wondered why she hadn’t come and thought it to him. After all, he’d known her all his life. He said, “Miss Elphinstone was supposed to go riding with us today—” Grayson shrugged. “We’ll see.” He left the schoolroom and went down the wide front staircase to the dim entrance hall. Maximus wasn’t to be seen. However, to his surprise, when he walked into the small dining room, Miss Elphinstone was enjoying breakfast with his aunt and uncle. She didn’t look at all wet, and she was smiling at him.
His uncle Douglas called out, “How is Barnaby after his adventure?”
“He is fine, sir. He said if he appears weak, and places a hand against his head, it is his defense to keep P.C. from smacking him for being careless.”
Both Aunt Alex and Uncle Douglas laughed. He said, “My boy, do join us. Miss Elphinstone arrived for the promised visit to Sir Thomas Bowlin’s stud farm, but alas, I doubt it will come to pass now. She has been telling us she feeds carrot juice to her horses at her home in Antwerp.”
“That’s right, my lord. I have found horses are mad for carrot juice, all except for my own sweet mare S.W. She spits it out, looks at me like I’m trying to poison her.”
“So what do you give her to drink?” Alex asked, waving her slice of toast loaded with blueberry jam.
Miss Elphinstone laughed. “She likes goat milk, nice and warm, fresh from the goat. And to eat, you’ll not believe it, but S.W. loves to chew on licorice. Ah, good morning, Mr. Sherbrooke.”
“Good morning, Miss Elphinstone.”
“Do call me R.M. My aunt and uncle send their felicitations. They are quite in a dither about their party for me tomorrow night, the sweet dears. I am pleased Barnaby survived his adventure.”
Grayson said, “If you tell me what R.M. stands for, I might tell you what P.C. stands for.”
“I do not like ‘mights,’ Mr. Sherbrooke. Will you tell me?”
Grayson grinned. “On second thought, I fear P.C. would throttle me in my sleep were I to do so.” He began spooning scrambled eggs onto his plate.
When he turned to the table to sit down, Miss Elphinstone said, “I would too.”
Douglas laughed. “All these initials. Wait, would you look at this—it was storming, thunder booming, but now the rain has stopped. Is that a speck of sunlight coming through those dark clouds?” He shook his head in wonderment. “I’ve never seen English weather cooperate like this before. You must be magic, Miss Elphinstone.”