Page 66 of The Cornish Inheritance

Dickon and Young Pascoe stepped back, and Nat took a step toward the stairs, anxious to be away from everyone and lie down somewhere dark and quiet. He needed something for his head and the persistent ache in his shoulder and arm. Perhaps he could ring for something from Mrs. Teague, who kept an arsenal of herbal remedies in the kitchen.

As he reached the bottom step, he turned around to stare straight at his stepmother. “Someone needs to go and fetch my saddle back. I’d like to have a look at that later on and find out exactly what failed. Perhaps Young Pascoe could go. It was at the top of the gully I rolled into, not far from Wheal Jenny’s count house. It’ll be easy to spot.”

What was that lurking behind her eyes? He couldn’t read her expression at all. And, if he admitted it, which he didn’t want to, his head was swimming too much to cope with working out what the woman was thinking about. Her eyes bored into his for several seconds too long. “Very well. He may go.”

Trefusis butted in. “He’ll need to deal with the cart and the other horses first. The saddle’s not as important as his usual work.”

Nat’s stepmother’s eyes slid sideways to Trefusis, and she gave him a slight nod.

That would have to do. Nat didn’t have the strength to argue the point. Young Tom Pascoe could bring it back this evening and he could scrutinize it. Perhaps he’d take a bath while he waited. A long, hot bath. He could ring for one to be brought up. But first the daunting prospect of the stairs.

He started up them, and the group in the hall broke up, although he didn’t look back to see. The door into the parlor closed, presumably on his mother and Trefusis, and the servants dispersed. Head down, he trudged up the wide staircase.

He’d reached the half-landing before he spotted he had an audience in the gallery. He stopped, heaved in a deep breath, and continued up the stairs.

Yves met him at the top. “Are you hurt? What did you do to your arm? Caroline’s being mean and won’t let me have a sling.”

“Silence, brat,” Nat said. “Your chatter is hurting my head.” His hand went automatically to the back of his skull and came away sticky with blood.

Hetty gave a horrified squeal, which made Nat want to cover his ears.

A firm but gentle hand rested on the small of his back. “Come into your room and let me take a look at your head. Someone needs to, and as you’ve turned down Doctor Rescorla’s attentions, it seems it falls to me to be your nurse.”

Caroline, of course.

Nat would have argued, but he found he didn’t have the energy. “Not her,” he said, indicating Hetty. “She’s too noisy by half.”

Caroline turned to Hetty. “Take Yves and go and reassure your grandfather that Nat is home safely. I’ll deal with his head wound. Off you go.”

Hetty and Yves, both rather reluctant, vanished off to Sir Hugh’s room to relay the good news. Thank goodness. He did not need Hetty squealing and Yves’s constant questions. He needed peace and quiet. Although he wasn’t quite sure Caroline should be coming into his bedroom with him. He pushed that aside. No one was going to know.

She kept her hand in the small of his back all the way along the gallery and down the corridor to his room, the feel of it reassuring. But as he pushed the door open, she removed it, and turning to the bellpull, jerked it. “We need warm water and cloths. Sit down on that chair and let me have a look at you.”

Nat sat down, obedience being the easiest thing. For some reason exhaustion was washing over him, despite having spent what must have been half the day asleep in the gully. Or at worst, unconscious.

Caroline stood behind him, her fingers gently parting the hair on the back of his head. Ouch. He winced. She didn’t hesitate though, but kept up her gentle probing. “It’s not too bad. A big lump, which has bled quite a lot. I’ll try to get the blood out of your hair. Not enough to need stitches, so you were right that you don’t need the doctor.” She paused. “Unless, of course, you have a concussion.”

“Since when have you been a nurse?”

She chuckled. “Since forever. As a child, I was friends with a big family and they were always getting into scrapes they didn’t want their parents hearing about. They turned to me every time.”

“Good luck for me.”

“Do you have a bad headache?”

“Crippling.”

“And what have you done to your arm? I’m assuming if it were broken, you’d have agreed to see the doctor.”

“Dislocated my shoulder.” He felt her startle. “Don’t worry, Casworan put it back in for me. But he says I have to be careful because it’s easy to do it again.”

“I have to admit, I have no knowledge of shoulder dislocations. Bumps and scrapes are my limit.”

Dickon arrived, and Caroline sent him to fetch water and cloths and ask Mrs. Teague for both an ointment for Nat’s head wound and something to dull the pain. “Brandy,” Nat said, but Caroline shook her head.

“That’ll only make you worse. Do you want the pain of a hangover as well as the headache you already have? And it’s a bad thing to have after a bang on the head. No. Warm water, Dickon, if you please, and a pot of tea.”

When Dickon returned with all the required list, Caroline laid them out on Nat’s washstand and returned to his head. Her fingers were so gentle, he could have closed his eyes and nodded off to sleep, but for the constant throbbing. He watched her wring out the cloths in the water and begin to dab the back of his head clean. Very soon the water had darkened with blood.