Each prick of the needle burned instead of stabbed, as if her body’s sensitivities were so overloaded, her brain could no longer accurately categorize individual injuries. She held her tongue against more comments and tried to stay still.
Wishing to be anywhere else, Lottie closed her eyes. In her mind she saw herself at home, at her desk in the sitting room, sunlight streaming through the multipaned windows as she made lists for the week’s work. Organizing and prioritizing the needs of the tenants or scheduling the planting and harvest in each field soothed her. An especially painful stitch sent daggers of sensation through her skull, pulling her from the mental retreat.
The inn’s maid arrived at the door as the doctor finished packing his case. Lottie invited the girl in as the physician left to await the arrival of Darling and Patrick from the carriage rubble. A moment later, hot water from the servant’s buckets splashed into the tub, letting off swirls of steam into the tiny room.
The young woman asked, “Will there be anything else before your bath, milady?”
Just the thought of a bath was enough to make her smile. “I don’t think so. I’m very much looking forward to being clean.” Sitting on the side of the bed, she was tempted to lean back and fall into the softness of the pillows, but she refused to give in to the urge when layers of grime covered every inch of her. Hot water first, then a lie-down. Checking the maid’s progress, Lottie said, “Now that I think of it, would you be so kind as to move that small table beside the tub? If the pitcher and soap are between the tub and fire, the clean water jug will stay warm. It’s just a small thing. Thank you.”
Exhaustion swept over her. From what she’d been able to piece together at the scene, she thought one of the horses had spooked, snapping a leather line and jarring the carriage. They’d hit a rut in the road at high speed, already teetering from the horse wanting to shy in a different direction. Bad luck. Awful timing. Then shuddering carriage walls cracking and splintering apart. A dirty floor that became a roof, then a floor, then a roof again. Panicked cries from the horses and Patrick’s answering call, cut short by an agonized scream. His leg. Lord, his leg. Darling’s ashen face, her eyes appearing too large for her skull when she saw the coachman. The disorientation when Lottie lost and regained consciousness at some point.
With closed eyes, Lottie counted footsteps as a parade of sloshing buckets filled the large basin by the fire. One hundred thirty steps. Ten buckets of water thus far. This had been the longest day, and it wasn’t even noon. At last, the maid emptied a final bucket, and Lottie stood to savor a moment of silence.
Relative silence. The Boar and Hound bustled with activity. Sounds of commerce and travelers filtered up through the floor. The four walls were her haven from the world as the fireplace blazed cheerily by the washtub, chasing away the shadows in the room.
The earlier waterworks that had threatened to overwhelm her in the stables loomed. Years of experience had taught her the dangers of stifling feelings for too long. A blinding headache with nausea and sensitivity to light and sound would be too much to bear after this morning.
There might be no preventing the pain. But when it hit, she could be clean. If that was all she could do to control the situation, then so be it. A desperate need to get out of the filthy traveling gown overruled the tangled feelings from the day. Although her fingers were clumsy and swollen from repeated impact in the carriage, she managed the tapes and hooks without help. Thank goodness for simple country clothes.
At last, fire-licked warmth from the hearth caressed bare skin. The idea of touching such a grimy dress, even to hang it on the hook by the door, made her wrinkle her nose, so she left it in a pile on the floor.
Zesty lemons teased her senses when she uncorked the vial of bath oil. It smelled of everything she wasn’t. Clean, crisp, and fresh. As she sank into the bath, her muscles protested before loosening under the soothing heat. The water stung her scraped skin, already marked with red and blue splotches. Over the next several days, those would become a colorful road map of abrasions and vivid bruises. What a miserable day.
She’d been in the tub for only a few moments when a knock interrupted her pity party. Lucia Darling poked her head in the room. “We’ve arrived, milady.” Lottie’s maid closed the door, then knelt by the tub, gently grasping Lottie’s chin to tilt her stitches toward the light. “Once the swelling in that eye goes down, you’ll clean up nicely.”
“I’ll be fine. How are you? Is Patrick awake?” Lottie draped the heavy curtain of her hair over one shoulder and reached for the soap.
“A few bumps. I’ll surely feel it tomorrow. Nothing compared to Patrick’s leg. He awoke for a few moments before the men arrived, but passed out again when they loaded him in the wagon. The doctor is getting him settled in a bed now,” Darling said.
“The physician proved competent with a needle.” Lottie gestured toward her own forehead. “Let us pray his bone-setting abilities are as impressive.”
“Aye.” Darling picked up the discarded clothing, hung it on the hook, then recorked the vial of oil by the tub.
“Darling, maybe you should sit. You have your own bruises and bumps to care for.”
Darling ignored the suggestion. She inspected the torn traveling gown with a critical eye—as if they’d launder and mend the thing. “Mr. and Mrs. Pringle seem nice. The rooms are clean. We’ll be comfortable once the men return from the coach with our things.”
“The only drawback I can see is our proximity to Lord Amesbury.” Lottie wrinkled her nose as if the name itself smelled foul. “We had words downstairs. Now I’d prefer never to see him again.”
“Lord Amesbury? Here? Hell on a broomstick, this day is one awful surprise after another.” Darling finally sat in the chair near the tub.
Lottie pushed the topic of Amesbury aside with a wave of her hand and a spray of lemon-scented droplets. “We can talk about him later. I’m most concerned about you and Patrick. I can see you’re worried. Would you prefer to be with him right now?”
Darling shook her head, but the jerky movement revealed her distress. “My duty is here, milady.”
Of course she would say that. “If you wish to keep him company, then go. Let me know what he needs to be more comfortable.”
Darling dipped a shallow curtsy, then darted from the room.
Alone again, Lottie skimmed the pitcher beneath the surface, then tipped her head back. Although she attempted to avoid the suture site, water hit the stitches, eliciting a grimace. Clean hair and body would be worth the momentary discomfort, surely.
When the water grew cool, she stepped from the tub before realizing her problem. Her clothes were with the carriage, strewn about the roadside. Lottie eyed the bloody rag formerly known as her traveling dress hanging by the door. No.
The toweling linen wrapped around her ample curves, with a gap of several inches. Lottie scowled at the skin between the ends of the towel. The bedding would have to do.
Wrapped in patchwork colors worn smooth by years of washings, Lottie wrote a letter informing her father—or rather, her father’s steward, Rogers—of the day’s events. Recounting the facts did nothing to loosen the knot of emotion lodged in her chest. Another note went to her godmother, Lady Agatha Dalrymple. The older woman expected Lottie at her London home this week, but under the current circumstances, the likelihood of that happening was nil.