“Why are they not helping Lord Harveston?” she cried.
“I reckon they’ve got to get him on land first,” Miss Mayton said. “I’m sure he’s all right, he is young and strong and has just taken a bump on the head.”
“I knew it,” Lynette muttered. “I knew it from the start.”
“If he is not all right,” Cordelia said, “if Lord Poppin has caused him a mortal injury, I will, well I will…I will take one of Darden’s pistols and shoot him!”
“Here we go,” Lynette said with a sigh.
“Let us not get ahead of ourselves,” Miss Mayton said.
Though her aunt remained calm, Cordelia could see she was just as worried.
The boat reached shore. Two men ran to the rowers with a wooden door between them and Lord Harveston was gently lifted from the boat and placed upon it. The lord did not move. At this distance, Cordelia could not see his face clearly, but she thought his eyes were closed. The men carried Lord Harveston up the bank and headed toward the house, pushing their way through curious onlookers.
“Aunt, you must go and find out his condition. And the doctor! He said he would be here, do be sure they have found him quickly. Oh, how I wish I had use of my own two feet just now!”
“Stay right where you are,” Miss Mayton said. “I will discover what has happened and return as soon as I have news. Lynette will remain behind to comfort you.”
“I knew it would go bad,” Lynette said, by way of comfort.
Miss Mayton hurried from the room. Cordelia was left to view the regatta and the stupid Lord Poppin making a fool of himself. If there was any comfort at all to what she viewed, it was that he’d lost total control of his vessel and was just going round in circles.
From the corridor, she heard feet pounding up the stairs until they were over her very head.
Lord Harveston was up there somewhere. Please God, let him be all right.
*
Percival awoke ina very confused condition. One minute he was sailing in that cursed regatta, and now he was in his bed.
Even more alarming, Miss Mayton was in his bedchamber peering down at him and the doctor had just pierced his finger with a needle.
He yanked his hand away.
“You felt that,” the doctor said. “Good, very good.”
The doctor then waved a candle in front of his eyes. “Pupils even and reactive, excellent. Not any permanent damage done that I can see.”
“Very well,” Percival said, attempting to rise.
“Oh no, you don’t, Lord Harveston,” the doctor said, gently pushing him back down. “You’ve had a commotion to the brain, thanks to Lord Poppin.”
The doctor sighed. “So many of those poor sots out there bet a week’s wages on that fool to win after hearing his cockamamie story about three whales attacking his boat off the coast of Brighton.”
“He did not win, please tell me he did not win,” Percival said.
The doctor went to the window. “Ah, he’s tipped his boat over and is shouting to the rowers.”
“Good.”
“Lord Harveston, you are to stay abed for at least three days, then I will assess your condition. You must take this very seriously to avoid any long-term effects. If I deem you fit in three days’ time, your recovery is not ended. You must proceed carefully. If you have ridden here, you must depart in a carriage. Do nothing that would involve violent jostling or the risk of another hit to the head. Really, it would be best if you could stop here for some weeks.”
“Weeks?” Percival asked.
“Weeks. Your brain has been shaken around and brains do not like to be shaken around. If you like, I can bleed you, though I do not think it will do a thing for you.”
“A stupid practice,” Percival said.
