Ethan had fallen into an uneasy sleep, lulled by the constant subtle rocking of the train’s motion. Garrett had to restrain herself from reaching over to fuss with him constantly, like a finicky artist working on a clay sculpture. She turned her attention to West Ravenel, who was sitting by a window and watching the passing scenery with keen interest.
“How did you find out about Mr. Ransom?” Garrett asked.
West’s gaze was warm and audacious, far different from Ethan’s secretive and penetrating one. He seemed to be at ease with himself and the world, a rare gift at a time when men of his class were faced with economic and social upheaval that threatened the loss of their traditions.
“About his connection to the family?” West asked easily, and continued without requiring an answer. “Recently I learned about a secret bequest of land that had been made to him in the old earl’s will. A longtime family servant confirmed that Ransom was Edmund’s by-blow with an Irish girl, who was likely a prostitute.” His mouth twisted. “Since Edmund wouldn’t provide for the girl or her babe, she eventually married a Clerkenwell prison guard. I’ve no doubt it was a hard life. The fact that Edmund could leave both the child and the mother to the wolves, and live with that on his conscience, should tell you something about what kind of man he was.”
“Perhaps he doubted the child’s paternity?”
“No, Edmund confided to his valet that the child was his. And Ransom bears the obvious stamp of his sire.” West paused and shook his head. “My God, I never expected to be bringing Ransom to Hampshire. When I met him in London a few weeks ago, he couldn’t have been more hostile. He wants nothing to do with any of us.”
“He was devoted to his mother,” Garrett said. “It’s possible he feels that forming an attachment to the Ravenels would be disloyal to her memory.”
West considered that with a frown. “Whatever the old earl did to Ransom and his mother, I’m sorry for it. But Ransom should know that the abuse was hardly limited to him. Edmund’s children were his favorite victims. Ask any of his daughters—they’ll tell you that living with him was no picnic-party.”
A jolt from the train caused Ethan to groan in his drugged sleep. Garrett smoothed his hair, normally so satiny, now rough and stiff like a dog’s coat.
“We’ll be there soon,” West said. “I can’t wait. I nearly left London a few days ago, pining for the place.”
“What did you miss about it?”
“I’ve missed every turnip, every hay bale, every chicken in the poultry yard, and bee in the box-hives.”
“You sound like a born farmer,” Garrett said, amused. “But you’re blue-blooded.”
“Am I?” West glanced at her then, the tiny fan-lines at the outer corners of his eyes deepening. “Although I tried not to look, it seemed quite red to me.” Stretching out his long legs comfortably, he laced his fingers together over his midriff. “My brother and I are descended from a far-flung branch of the Ravenels. No one ever expected us to darken the doorstep of Eversby Priory, much less for Devon to inherit the title and all that came with it.”
“How did it fall to you to manage the land and tenant farms?”
“Someone had to. Devon was better suited to handle a snarl of legal and financial matters. At that point, my impression of farming was that one was obliged to arrange hay in picturesque stacks. It turned out to be slightly more complicated than that.”
“What do you like about farming?”
West considered the question, while the train puffed and clambered resolutely up the incline of a broad hill covered with golden-flowered furze. “I like clearing a new field and hearing the roots crack and watching stumps being pulled under the plow blades. I like knowing that after I sow three bushels of wheat on an acre, the proper mixture of sun, rain, and manure will yield sixty-four bushels. After having lived in London for so long, I’d reached a point where I needed something to make sense.” His gaze turned absent and dreamy. “I like living in the seasons. I love the summer storms that come in from the sea, and the smell of good soil and mown hay. I love big breakfasts with new-laid eggs boiled until the yolks are set but still a bit soft, and hot buttered muffins spread with comb honey, and rashers of fried bacon and slabs of Hampshire ham, and bowls of ripe blackberries just picked from the hedgerows—”
“Please,” Garrett said thickly, beginning to feel nauseous from the train’s oscillation. “Don’t talk about food.”
West smiled. “After some rest, and a day or two of fresh air, you’ll find your appetite.”
Instead of stopping at the public station in the market town of Alton, the special train proceeded to a private railway halt located on the east side of the vast Eversby Priory estate.
The halt consisted of a single platform covered by a wooden-and-iron scrollwork canopy. The two-story signal box had been constructed of brick and wood, with multipaned glass windows and a green tiled roof. Having been built to service a nearby hematite quarry on Ravenel land, the private station included a number of small buildings and freight facilities. There were also wagons for quarrying, tramways that led to and from the quarry site, steam drills, pumps, and boring equipment.
A mild early-morning breeze swept inside the train carriage as West opened the door. “It will take a few minutes for the ambulance cart to be unloaded and reassembled,” he said. After a pause, he added apologetically, “You’ll probably want to give him something extra for pain during the last part of the journey. Not all the roads are paved.”
Garrett’s brows rushed down. “Are you trying to kill him?” she demanded in a scathing whisper.
“Obviously not, or I would have left him in London.”
After West left the railway carriage, Garrett went to Ethan, who had begun to stir. His eye sockets appeared bruised and sunken, and his lips were dry as chalk.
She held a flexible rubber tube to his lips, and he sucked in a few sips of ice water.
Ethan’s lids cracked open, and his unfocused gaze found her. “Still here,” he said in a hoarse whisper, not appearing entirely happy about the fact.
“You’re going to be better soon. All you have to do now is sleep, and heal.”
Ethan looked as though he were puzzling over some foreign language, trying to interpret it. There was a brittleness about him, as if spirit and flesh were coming unstitched from each other. He trembled with fever chills despite the dry-baked heat of his skin. Traumatic inflammation, the clinical part of her brain noted. Wound-fever. Despite the abundant use of antiseptic fluids, infection had set in. The rigors would soon be accompanied by a rapid elevation of temperature.
She coaxed him to take another sip of water.
“I’m in a bad takin’,” Ethan whispered after he’d swallowed. “Need something.”
God only knew what it had cost him to complain.
“I’ll give you morphine,” she said, and swiftly prepared another syringe.
By the time the injection took effect, the ambulance cart had been reassembled and hitched to a broad-backed, placid-tempered dray. The ride to Eversby Priory manor seemed interminable as the cart’s India-rubber wheels rolled gingerly over the rough terrain.