There was warmth here, albeit in abeyance; the promise of life still lay richly upon this house. The fable of Sleeping Beauty occurred to her-the house was waiting for her prince to return and reawaken her. Lips lifting wryly at her fancy, she let Colly ease ahead and open a door.
"This room was always kept ready for the master."
Holding the candelabra high, she surveyed the chamber. "The earl?" It didn't seem large enough.
"Nay, the young master. Lord Martin. They was expecting him back anytime."
She crossed to the curtained bed. "They?"
"The old earl and Lady Rachel. Looked for him for years they did, but he never did come back." Colly rattled back the curtains, ignoring the cloud of dust. "Gave me a right turn, seeing him standing there, large as life. Too late for his lordship-his father, I mean-and her ladyship, more's the pity."
Colly fell to shaking the pillows and the covers. Setting aside her confusion, Amanda placed her candelabra on the bedside table and helped. The room and this bed would do for Reggie. Leaving Colly with instructions to get the fire going, she headed back to the kitchen.
Back to Reggie. She'd never seen him so pale, so lifeless, stretched out on the table before the fire. Their last words rang in her head; she swallowed and chafed his hands, but her own hands were icy. Gently, she brushed back a tuft of hair that had fallen across his bandage; her heart constricted-she forced herself to look around. To do something to hold the unbearable at bay.
Shock, loss of blood-how did one treat that? She'd never felt so helpless in her life. Tea-people always prescribed tea for everything. She rummaged through the few canisters standing on a sideboard, Colly's meagre provisions. She found the tea.
Martin walked in as she stood hovering over a steaming kettle, a spoon in one hand, the open canister in the other. She glanced at him, gestured helplessly. "I've no idea how much to put in."
He heard the wavering in her voice, saw the rising panic in her eyes. He crossed to her. "I'll do it." He took the canister and spoon from her, deftly measured tea into the kettle. "How is he?"
"Icy." She dragged in a tight breath.
"Did you find a decent bed?"
"Yes, but it's in the room Colly said had been yours."
Martin set the canister aside and dropped the lid back on the kettle. "That doesn't matter-it's a good choice. It's smaller than some of the other rooms. Easier to heat."
Amanda shivered. He glanced at her. It was no longer that cold in the kitchen. "Why don't you find some cups? We can all do with something hot."
She nodded, and went to the cupboards.
Colly returned with a pile of blankets. "Here you go." He handed one to Onslow, nodding in the chair he'd pulled closer to the fire.
Amanda set down the mugs she'd found and hurried to take a blanket and spread it over Reggie. Martin watched, then glanced at Colly. "Why don't you make up a bed in the room next to yours for Onslow? He can have some tea, then he should sleep."
"Aye. I'll do that." Colly left by a narrow stair that led to the rooms directly above the kitchen.
Martin poured the brewed tea into four mugs. "Here." He handed one to Onslow, who cradled it in his hands. "How's the arm?"
"Throbbing, but I'm thinking that's a good sign." Onslow sipped. "I've been hit before, years ago. I'll live."
Martin offered one of the mugs to Amanda. Eyes on Reggie, she shook her head. "No-it's for him."
"I seriously doubt he'll wake tonight-he's lost too much blood."
Her expression turned stricken; he drew her to him, hugged her within one arm. "He'll most likely awaken all right in the end, just not yet. Now-you need this." He curled her fingers about the mug; she shivered and took it, wrapped both hands about it and sipped, but her eyes never left Reggie.
Colly returned; Martin handed him the fourth mug, and they all sipped, standing before the hearth.
"The horses all right?" Colly asked.
"As well as can be." Martin looked down at his mug, swirled the tea. "Where are the other horses-my father's hunters, the carriage horses? What happened to them?"
"Sold. Years ago."
Martin frowned. His father had died only a year ago, yet the stables had been deserted for much longer.
Colly set down his empty mug and took Onslow's. "Come on, let's get you settled, then."
The pair headed up the narrow stair. Martin tugged the chair Onslow had vacated nearer the ebbing blaze, and drew Amanda to it. She sank down, but her worried gaze remained on the silent figure on the table.
When Colly returned, Martin nodded to Reggie. "It should be warm enough upstairs-let's move him."
Not an easy task. Reggie was slight, but he was no lightweight, and Martin didn't want to ask Colly to help; the old man was too frail. Balancing Reggie, Martin had to stop in the front hall, then again at the top of the stairs to catch his breath, but they reached his old room without catastrophe. Amanda rushed in and drew down the covers, pulling out the warming pan Colly had set in place.
Martin laid Reggie down; Amanda covered him, straightening his arms, brushing back his hair. Martin turned to Colly. "We'll need some bricks."
"I set some warming downstairs. I'll bring 'em up."
Crouching before the hearth, Martin built up the fire, noting the coal shuttle and woodbox were both full. The chill had left the room. Standing, he stared down at the fire, trying not to look around, see and remember.
He didn't begrudge Reggie the room; he doubted he could ever sleep here again. Besides, he was no longer the heir, but the earl-his room lay at the end of the corridor.
Colly returned with the heated bricks wrapped in blankets; they slid them between the covers, creating a cocoon of warmth around Reggie's inanimate form. Glancing at Amanda, tight-lipped, wide-eyed, nearly as pale as Reggie, Martin wished Reggie would stir, show some sign of life. But Reggie was still unconscious; the longer he remained so, the less good his chances. Martin saw no reason to voice that fact.
He dismissed Colly with a nod. "Get some sleep. We'll see where we are come morning."
Colly bowed and left. Martin glanced at Amanda. She'd sunk down on the bed beside Reggie, staring at his white face. It was long past midnight; they both needed rest, but he knew better than to suggest she leave her vigil.
"I'll hunt up some quilts and pillows." He picked up the smaller candelabra. Amanda didn't look up as he left the room.
In the corridor, he hesitated, then walked further into the family's private wing. Toward the double doors at the end, oak carved with the family crest. He stopped before them, seeing not them but visions from the past. Turning his head, he considered the door to his left; after a long moment, he stirred and opened it.
It was well over ten years since he'd last entered his mother's boudoir. All through his childhood, it had been a place of irresistible delight, a cornucopia of stimuli to his imagination and his senses.
The room was exactly as he remembered it, draped in satins and silks, in rich brocades and laces. No sultan's harem had ever been so blatantly lush. It was from his beautiful mother he'd inherited his wild and sensual nature, his tactile sensitivity, his love of color and texture. Closing the door, he raised the candelabra, looked at her escritoire sitting between the windows. He could almost see her there, writing some note, turning to greet him with that laughing smile that had been her hallmark, and her greatest gift.
She hadn't smiled at him that day; she hadn't believed him, either, or rather, hadn't known what to believe. She'd hesitated, hadn't immediately thrown her loyalty and support behind him, and that had been enough. Enough to bring life as she and he had known it to an end.
Slowly, he moved into the room, recognizing figurines, a clock, a letter opener. Breathing in, he could almost believe he could smell her perfume, weak and stale beneath the weight of the years, but still there.