Randall looked relieved and grasped her father’s hand. “Exactly, sir. And Mr. Arundel is a good friend. I cannot trust him to the care of servants.”
“You want family.”
“Exactly.” Randall smiled and Belle could have sworn there were tears in his eyes. “I would not have called for you save everyone else is out of Town. I will send a letter to Mr. Arundel’s family, of course, but would you—could you—until they arrive—”
“Of course. We would be honored,” her father said.
Randall let out a relieved sigh. “Thank you. I will have Farnsworth ready everything. If you will excuse me? I know it is rude to leave you as such—”
Another scream from above, and Randall looked almost panicked.
“Go. We will be fine. Leave everything to me.”
Randall did not wait for another word. He took the stairs two at a time and was gone. Belle looked up at her father. “Did you just agree to care for a stranger who has a mortal knife wound?”
Her father smiled down at her. “It appears I did. And we do not know if the wound is mortal.”
“What if he dies? We could be blamed.”
“We will simply have to make sure he doesn’t die.”
“I’m not a nurse,” Belle objected. “I know nothing about knife wounds.”
“We will figure it out together. Did you bring the tea?”
Belle had almost forgotten about the hibiscus tea she had tucked in her reticule. She withdrew it now and placed it on the table in the foyer. “Do you think that was blood on Mr. Randall’s shirt?” she asked with a shudder.
“Better not to think about it,” her father said.
The next half hour was a blur of activity. The housekeeper appeared with an armful of clean linen and a piece of paper with instructions from the doctor. Belle took the linen, her father took the instructions, and the housekeeper took the tea. Belle flinched every time Mrs. Randall screamed. The screams came at regular intervals, which, fortunately were not close together yet. Finally, just as Belle was certain her nerves could not take any more, four footmen came down the stairs with a man on a pallet.
Her first view of Mr. Arundel was not impressive. He was a limp, pale form whose limbs dangled off the pallet. She caught a glimpse of dark hair and a long face and then he was being carried out the door and to the waiting carriage. Belle looked at her father. “I suppose we follow?”
“One moment!” An older man in black came down the stairs. His spectacles were askew and his neckcloth loosened. Belle could only assume this was the doctor at last. “You are Mr. and Miss Howard, yes?” He had an upper-class accent and a stiff way of walking.
“We are,” Belle’s father said, coming forward to shake the doctor’s hand at the base of the stairs. “We have received your instructions.”
“Good. You can read?”
Belle bristled, but her father just smiled. “Both my daughter and I read and write.” He unfurled one of the hands clasped behind his back and made a gesture for her to hold her tongue. Not that she had anything to say to this doctor. He’d obviously judged them right away by their dress and speech.
“Follow my instructions to the letter. I will call on you tomorrow—God willing.” His gaze lifted to the ceiling and the upper floors where Mrs. Randall labored. “I’ve bandaged and stitched the wound, but it’s impossible to tell if there’s irreparable internal injury. For now we try to keep him comfortable and stave off infection. When he develops a fever, and he most certainly will, you will need to keep him cool. An ice bath is best.”
Belle covered her mouth to keep from laughing. An ice bath! As though they were made of money and could purchase enough ice at this time of year to put in a bathtub!
The doctor stepped closer to her father, ostensibly so Belle would not hear his next words. He murmured something and her father nodded gravely. “We will do our best, sir.”
Another scream sounded, followed by a curse, and the doctor looked up. “I had better go back. I think we’ve some time before the babe comes, but I can provide comfort with my presence.” He started back up the stairs without a by-your-leave.
Belle snorted. “As though he would be any comfort.” She took her father’s proffered arm. “Poor Mrs. Randall. She may be screaming for hours to come.”
“Your own mother had mercifully brief labors,” he told her as they left the house and walked through the steady rain to the waiting carriage. “And yet it seemed as though she was in pain for days. Those were the best and worst two days of my life,” he said, giving her a smile.
He didn’t speak of her mother often, but when he did it always made Belle’s heart clench. It was so obvious he had loved Isabelle Howard, her mother and namesake. Belle wished she had known her mother more. She’d been seven when her mother had died, and now, eighteen years later, her memories were vague and fuzzy.
A footman held the door to the carriage open. The pallet had been laid vertically so that the man’s head was on one seat and his feet on the other. He was a tall man, and his legs were bent to accommodate his length on the pallet. Belle climbed in and took the empty spot on one side of the coach, and her father took that across from her.
“John Coachman will drive slowly,” the footman said. “Good night, Miss. Sir.” He closed the door and the coach started away slowly, as promised. Even with the slow, careful pace, the carriage bumped over the streets, jouncing the pallet. The man seemed to be unconscious, but he made small sounds of pain, his brow furrowing. Belle told herself not to care. His care had been thrust upon them and would certainly interfere with the daily work of running the shop. She hadn’t bothered to point out the inconvenience taking this injured man on would be because she knew her father would hear none of it and insist it was their Christian and familial duty. As far as Belle was concerned, she didn’t owe anything to Lydia or Charles Randall, but she supposed she would be truly heartless if she refused to take an injured man in for a couple of days. Surely, his family would ride hell for leather to reach London and take over his care.
