Joan Smith: Delsie

“Oh my God!” he muttered to himself, bending closer. The blood was flowing freely down her temples into her hair. The mood of the night changed suddenly. It had been an adventure, a diversion in life’s routine, a pleasure really, and a challenge to discover the ingenious hiding place Andrew had contrived for the brandy.

All thoughts of brandy and hiding places were swept from his mind as he pulled out his handkerchief and bound it around her wound, with his fingers trembling. His chief thought now was to get her to a doctor as quickly as possible. Not even a horse or a carriage-his mount in the stable at the Cottage. He’d have to carry her to the Hall, and the Cottage was so much closer! She made no move. Torn with indecision, he slipped as quietly as possible to where his footman stood peering through the thicket into the orchard.

“Hicks, go at once to the Hall and bring my closed carriage down the lane. Mrs. Grayshott is hurt. I’ll carry her through the spinney and meet you there.”

“They’re doing it now!” Hicks objected. “Gor blimey, they’re moving the trees!”

“Go!” deVigne said in a voice loud enough to alert one of the smugglers, who looked up sharply toward the thicket, but fortunately to the wrong end. With a muffled imprecation and a last look over his shoulder, Hicks sprinted off. Having lived at the Hall since he was ten, he spurned the road and took the shortcut through the woods.

DeVigne hastened quietly back to where Delsie still lay on the ground. He was relieved to see no blood showed through the bandage. He picked her up gently in his arms and walked silently towards the lane to meet the carriage. She stirred once and said “Bobbie!” in a hysterical voice, trying to lift her head, then it fell back against his chest.

“She’s all right. Bobbie’s all right,” he assured her, in a calming voice, as he quickened his steps. Of Mrs. Grayshott’s own condition he was less sure. He did not feel it could be fatal, but a blow on the head might engender some mental disorder, possibly even of a permanent nature. There was no point in blaming her. It was his fault. Trying to save her from something of this sort by removing her from the Cottage, he had hurt her himself.

Remorse was added to his anguish. She was cold as ice. Why had she come out without a wrap? His quickened pace was of no use. He had to wait ten minutes for his carriage. Ten minutes that seemed an eternity, with the unconscious burden in his arms, not stirring, while his impatience mounted to alarm, and finally panic.

At last the wheels were heard coming down the drive, and while an openmouthed groom looked on, deVigne managed with some difficulty to get himself and Delsie into the carriage. From the door he directed, “Go down to the road and turn around. You’ll never manage a turn here. The minute you get to the Hall, go for the doctor at once. Take a mount, it will be faster. Close the door now, and don’t waste any time.”

He held the insentient widow on his knee, her head resting against his chest as they were driven to the road and back to the Hall. He tried to rouse her, saying softly, urgently, “Delsie. Delsie, can you hear me?” once or twice, but no response came. He cradled her in his arms, laying his cheek against the top of her head, silently cursing himself and fate for this ill-timed occurrence. Mrs. Forrester had already discovered the escape, and was anxiously pacing the hallway when deVigne carried Mrs. Grayshott in.

“I sent a boy out to tell you she’d got away,” she said, “but I didn’t know exactly where you were.”

“He’ll likely walk right into Clancy’s boys and have his head cleaved open,” he answered. “I told you to watch her, Mrs. Forrester. How did she get out?”

“It must have been by the window. Whoever would have thought she would-oh, my! She’s hurt. Is it bad?”

“I don’t know. Her color is not gone off too badly,” he replied, examining her, relieved to see in the better light that she was not so pale as the darkness had indicated. “Get some hot water and bandages-brandy. In the study,” he added, hurrying in that direction. “And a blanket. She’s cold.”

She was laid on a settee in the study. Mrs. Forrester returned with water and bandages, and was promptly sent off again for basilicum powder, and to find a boy to light the grate, while deVigne untied his makeshift bandage and examined the wound. It did not appear deep to his unpracticed eye. The skin was open, but the blood had stopped flowing. Why did she remain so long unconscious? As he began dabbing at the drying blood with a cloth, Delsie opened her eyes. She looked at deVigne, said “Oh, no!” in accents of deepest disgust, closed her eyes, and turned her head away.

“You know me?” he asked brusquely, fearing he hardly knew what. That her brain was disordered, or worse.

“Where’s Bobbie?” she asked in a weak voice.

“In her bed.”

“I shouldn’t have left her-”

“Indeed you should not!” he answered, anger rapidly replacing fear as he saw her wits to be intact, but the anger was truly directed against himself.

“It was you-in the woods,” she accused.

“Yes, yes. All my doing. Delsie, I’m damnably sorry.”

She closed her eyes, and they remained closed till the doctor arrived not so much later. During the interval, deVigne first sat beside her, directing a few disconnected comments to her unresponding form, then pacing the room, still talking at random. The doctor’s ministrations roused her thoroughly, especially when he probed her cut. She wailed in a loudish voice that grew no weaker when she noticed deVigne glancing worriedly over the doctor’s shoulder. After some uncomfortable minutes, the doctor closed his bag and pronounced her safe, with only a probable headache, which was to be relieved by a sleeping draught.

“No!” she declared firmly.

“Mrs. Grayshott has already had a-sedative,” deVigne explained.

“The pupils are not dilated,” the doctor pointed out. “That must have been some time ago. I recommend a few drops-”

“No!” she repeated, more firmly than before.

The poor doctor looked quite surprised at her lack of cooperation, and said that if she had the devil of a headache in the morning, she must not blame him.

“You may be sure I shan’t blame you, Doctor!” she declared in a meaningful voice, looking over his head to him whom she did blame. DeVigne shook his head slightly, to indicate she should hold her peace till the doctor was gone.

He soon left, and with a wary look, deVigne came toward the settee. “That feel better?” he asked.

She sat up and glared at him. “No doubt you are concerned that I be perfectly comfortable, after drugging me and locking me up in your house, and hitting my head with a rock!”

“I did not! Hit your head I mean. I had to stop you from barging in on the smugglers. Delsie, what in God’s name possessed you to-

“Oh, no, I am not the one who has to explain the night’s actions. You are the one who has broken half a dozen laws. I shouldn’t be in the least surprised to hear that moving smuggled brandy was included in your crimes either.”

“I wish you will lie down and relax,” he essayed placatingly.

“I have been relaxed to the point of unconsciousness for several hours already this night. What time is it anyway?”

“It is one-fifteen. Why?”

“You must hurry and find out where they’ve hidden it! Oh, do rush, Max, or they’ll be gone,” she urged, forgetting to be angry with him in her eagerness, and forgetting as well her vow never to use his Christian name.

“They’ve been gone an hour. They were there when you-you fell.”

“Was pushed!” she corrected.