Failure nabbed Simon with more sharpness than the knife wound. What would Ruth have said to know Simon had allowed their children to go hungry? She would have wept to know they had been cold, sick, and growing thinner below a grimy ship deck.
Their glowing eyes, their eagerness to feast on fancy delicacies now, only drove that shame deeper. He would not fail his children again.
God help him.
“You must be Mr. Fancourt.” A woman appeared on the other side of the tables, black ringlets swaying in the warm, floral-scented breeze. “I am Eleanor Oswald, as I am certain you already know.”
“I didn’t.”
If his answer offended, she showed no sign. Instead, her smile increased, if not cunningly. “These must be your children. I have heard about them, though I confess, only in the scandal column of theMorning Chronicle.”
“You should find better pastimes.”
“You are as forthright as my brother.”
“Excuse me.” Taking Mercy’s hand, he escaped to another table, loaded her plate with a small portion of the queen currant cake she pointed at, and turned.
“Just a moment, Mr. Fancourt.” Eleanor Oswald stood waiting for him, blocking his path, the muslin of her red dress rippling. “The other children are partaking of Blind Man’s Bluff on the other side of the lawn. Unless you have an objection, I should like to introduce them to the game.”
Simon glanced at John’s face. He’d been watching the game for the last hour. “Very well.” He took his son’s plate. “You can eat when you’re finished playing. Go on with you.”
As Miss Oswald led his children away, Simon returned the dessert plates to the quilt with Mother, but he did not sit. More perspiration leaked down his temples. Underneath the borrowed coat, his shirtsleeve felt damp and sticky, as if the bandage was not enough to staunch new bleeding.
He needed to get it stopped.
The last thing he wanted was for everyone present to gawk at him with more speculations. Those who had not read about him in the newspaper were likely whispering of his disappearance twelve years ago, the inheritance he came home to, the motherless children he brought with him.
Breathing fast by the time he climbed the porch steps, Simon clutched his side, strode inside the anteroom, and found his way to a quiet corridor. He hailed a maid who was scurrying by with two pitchers of lemonade. “I wonder if you might fetch me some bandages.”
She glanced him over in confusion. “Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”
Simon nodded at the first door he found. “Thank you. I will wait in here.” He slipped into what appeared to be a smoking room, judging by the maroon velvet draperies and upholstery, the masculine Turkish rug, and the overpowering, earthy scent of tobacco.
He found a chair and sank into it, sliding his eyes shut.
He needed sleep.
Maybe more of the laudanum a maid had given him during the night.
The quietness of the room, the cushioned chair, all pulled at his tension and dulled his pounding pain.“What happened?”Words whispered through him. Her words.“You’re injured, stranger.”
A skinny girl with brown hair tucked behind both sunburnt ears.“Blayney had you chopping for vittles, didn’t he?”A smile too big for her thin face. Hands that were calloused but gentle.“Come inside and we’ll get the bleeding stopped. You’ll be limping for a while, but it won’t kill you.”
Helping him stand, helping him walk, helping him keep his mind off the blood trailing down his leg and the hatchet still clutched in his blistered hand.“Haven’t used that thing much, have you?”Entering the trading post, limping his way to a barrel.“Don’t look so worried, stranger. You’ll still get those vittles. By the way, my name’s Ruth.”
A thump jerked Simon awake.
He stood, sucked air through his teeth as the wound screamed in protest. How long had he been asleep?
He glanced at the stand beside his chair. Apparently, the maid had already come and gone, because a basin of water and a folded white bandage sat waiting for him.
He removed his coat, then his waistcoat, then untucked his shirtsleeve. A bright red circle of blood stared back at him. He unwound the bandage—
Voices.
Thumping.
A dull drone of indistinguishable words as the footsteps drew closer, then paused outside the smoking-room door.
