No Other Love. Candace Camp
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I know.” Mrs. Hinton looked somber for a moment, but then her ready smile was back. “But they won’t get caught. I’m tellin’ you, he’s canny.”
Having exhausted Mrs. Hinton’s store of knowledge on the subject of the mysterious highwayman, Nicola turned their conversation to other matters. Finally, Mrs. Hinton rose, saying that she’d taken up enough of Nicola’s time.
“But, if you don’t mind, miss,” she asked, knowing the answer as well as Nicola did, “some of the girls complain about their ‘time of the month,’ and Granny Rose used to give them something that fixed them right up. Would you be knowing the recipe?”
“I do indeed. I brought some with me, if you’ll have someone fetch my bag from my horse.”
“Of course, miss. You’re a good woman, if you don’t mind my bein’ so bold as to say that. Granny Rose would be proud of you.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Hinton. That makes me very pleased.”
So for the rest of the afternoon Nicola stayed in the private parlor of the inn, listening to the ills of first the servants, then various other townspeople who had heard that she was there and dropped in to seek her help. She dispensed advice and remedies, and when she did not have the decoction that she thought would best cure an ill, she made a note of it and promised to send something to them the next day. Several people came for loved ones who were ill at home, and these Nicola accompanied back to their houses to see the patients and take note of their symptoms herself.
The afternoon lengthened, then died away, and it was growing dark when she turned away from Tom Jeffers’s house, where she had gone to see his mother, who lay frail and shriveled in her bed, slowly drifting away from life. Nicola had known at once that there was nothing she could do for the woman except give her a tonic to ease the pain the old woman was suffering.
She walked back down the street toward the inn to retrieve her horse, but before she reached it, she saw a man’s figure hurrying down a side street toward her, and instinctively she knew that he came for her.
“Miss! Miss!” he gasped, short of breath. “Wait! Don’t go.”
She stopped, letting him catch up to her. “Why, Frank.” She smiled at the man, whom she recognized now as the husband of one of the former housemaids at Buckminster. The couple had been married five years now and had four children. “How are you?”
“Not good, Miss Falcourt, not good.” He stopped, breathing heavily. “I’m sorry, miss. We just heard you was here. It’s the baby—he’s sick. He don’t sound good, like he can hardly breathe. Lucy was up all night with him, but he just keeps getting worse. Can you come? Lucy fair brightened up when she heard you was here. ‘The young lady can fix him,’ she says. Can you, miss?”
“I’ll come, of course.” She smiled, hiding the sinking sensation in her stomach. She didn’t have Lucy’s touching faith in her skills. She knew that illness in children was worse; they were so small, so fragile. A fever that an adult might endure could carry a child off.
She followed the man to his cottage, where he ushered her into the low-ceilinged room. It was dim inside, lit only by a guttering tallow candle and the fire, which provided heat for the house, as well. A woman sat on a stool before the fire, a small child about two years old wrapped in a blanket in her arms. She rocked back and forth, crooning tunelessly. When she saw Nicola enter the door, she jumped to her feet, a smile spreading tremulously across her face. “Miss Nicola! Oh, thank you!”
Tears began to fall from her eyes, and she hurried forward, holding the child up for Nicola to see. “You’ll help him, won’t you, miss? You won’t let him die!”
“I will do my best. Now, what’s the matter with him?” Her question was almost unnecessary, for it was easy to see the flush of fever on his cheeks, and as Lucy handed him over to Nicola, he coughed, a harsh, deep, barking sound.
“It sounds like the croup, Lucy. I think he will be all right. We just need to keep that little throat from closing up on him. Put some water on to boil, will you?”
Lucy nodded wordlessly and went right to work. Nicola sent the father for a small blanket, while she paced up and down, holding the child and murmuring soothing noises as he continued to cough. When the water was steaming, she had Lucy pour it into a bowl and put it on the table. Then, forming a small tent with the blanket, she sat down and held the child so that his head was under the tent. As the child breathed in the steamy air, his cough began to quiet, then subsided.
Lucy began to cry again, mopping away her tears with the corner of her apron. “Oh, miss, I knew you could help him.”
Nicola smiled. “Just do this when he gets an attack. The steam opens up his throat so he can breathe better. Put warm poultices on his feet tonight. I’ll give you a bag of wild plum bark for you to make him tea. Give it to him several times a day.”
Lucy nodded fervently, repeating “yes, miss, oh, yes, miss” like a magic incantation. When the baby’s cough had died away, she took the child and put him tenderly to bed, then returned to Nicola so she could demonstrate how to make the hot poultices for his feet. Lastly, Nicola dipped out a small amount of dried bark into a sack and handed it to her.
“I shall send you more if you need it. I have given out all the rest of it this afternoon, but I can get more when I get back to Tidings. So let me know. Any time he has another coughing fit, you be sure to put him under the tent with steam.”
“Oh, I will, miss, I will. Lord love you, miss.” She grabbed Nicola’s hand and would have kissed it had Nicola not pulled her hand away and given Lucy a hug instead.
“Send for me if something happens,” Nicola told her. “Promise me.”
“I will. I promise.”
After several more protracted thank-yous from Lucy and her husband, Nicola managed to leave. Frank insisted on walking her back to the inn’s stable, just to make sure she was safe, for it was late in the evening by the time Nicola finished.
The ostler at the inn seemed equally troubled at the idea of a lady riding back to Tidings in the dark evening, but Nicola brushed aside his offer of an escort. She knew that no one who lived around here would do her harm, nor was she afraid of the legends of fire-breathing hounds and ghostly carriages that kept most local people firmly inside their houses after dark. There was the highwayman, of course. The thought of him sent a strange chill down her spine. But, she reasoned, he would not bother with such paltry game as a lone female rider. It was a trifle chilly, but her cloak would keep her warm.
She left the village, letting her mare pick her way, for the sliver of new moon provided little light. It was a cloudless evening, and the stars were already shining brightly in the sky. Nicola rode along, letting her thoughts drift as she contemplated the dark velvet sky. She felt tired, but satisfied. It was always rewarding to be able to help someone, especially when it was a child’s life at stake. Lucy’s baby, she thought, would recover, though it might take a while for the illness to run its course.
Ahead of her a copse of trees lay beside the road, and as she neared it, a man on horseback rode out from the shadows beneath the trees. Nicola sucked in her breath, her heart beginning to pound, and pulled back automatically on her reins, stopping her horse.
The man rode toward her without haste, and Nicola watched him, her mouth dry. He was dressed all in black, and under his hat his face was unnaturally dark. She knew without a doubt that it was the highwayman. So she had been wrong. He would stoop to accost a lone woman. Her hands tightened on the reins as she debated whether to turn and flee toward the village, but she could not bear to play the coward in front of this man. Besides, she reminded herself practically, his horse looked powerful, and she suspected that he would catch up with her if she did run. Better to stand and face the danger. That had always been her way.
She waited, chin lifting unconsciously. The man stopped a few feet from her and swept off his hat, bowing to her. A smile played on his lips. “Well, my lady. A bit dangerous for you to be out this late, isn’t it? Alone? In the