Page 26 of Dared By a Lyon
“I’m afraid I can’t guarantee that,” she said gently, patting his hand, “but it could stave off a potentially worse infection. You can wait and have Dr. Baker do it when he returns. Or I can do it now. I’d feel better knowing it was taken care of.”
She knew what her father would tell her. He’d want to see that wound sewn up, although she wasn’t entirely sure the skin at the edges wasn’t already starting to decompose. Her father believed in cleaning everything. This type of injury was commonplace at her father’s medical office in Connecticut. She’d do as she’d seen him do. She had to try to—if Billy would let her.
“I had a fever on the night I arrived. But I got through it,” he said, his tone immodest.
“You did well with her extracting that stone, Billy. I think you should let Miss Vickers stitch up that wound if she’s confident she can,” Gabriel said.
Gabriel believes in me.She knew she was doing the right thing. “Could you go ask Alice for a needle and thread? And I’ll need scissors.”
Gabriel winked at her and smiled at her before he left. Very soon, he returned with everything she needed. She washed the wound out once more and stitched it closed, making a small knot after the last stitch.
“Billy, everything is done. You can spit that out,” she said, taking the stick that he’d nearly bitten in half. She gently bathed his forehead and face and held a cup of fresh water to his lips so he could drink a few sips.
His wound had been unprotected for too long, and she had noticed signs of infection beginning. Her father had once explained that many doctors believed thick white pus helped the healing, but he was convinced it carried infection and worsened things. That was why he always did his best to keep the site clean to avoid infection.
But there was no need to share that information. After Gabriel’s earlier musing on what she had absorbed from her “uncle,” Ashlyn did not want to spark his curiosity even more as to the extent of her knowledge. But the other reason was that shecould not help but feel a bubble of happiness at the admiration in Gabriel’s eyes. She could not bear seeing that fade or be replaced by anger, or worse—distrust or hate. And so, she kept her secret and would continue to lie.
Chapter Twelve
That evening
Ashlyn relaxed againstthe comfortable pillows she’d plumped up behind her bed and withdrew her diary from under her mattress, where she’d left it that morning, before going down to breakfast with the countess. Before arriving at Ravenswood, she hadn’t written since she and Elizabeth had gone sightseeing. And after tonight, she would have written twice in a day. But so much had happened in the meantime that she was anxious to write, especially considering what had transpired since her leaving the hotel in London.
As she leaned against the headboard, she thought about the accident and how she got here—to Ravenswood, in the company of the Earl of Ravensthorpe, the most handsome man she’d ever seen—and needed to tell her diary. Then there was Elizabeth’s elopement, something she was still having trouble reconciling. Just thinking about her cousin made her heart hurt. She dearly hoped Elizabeth had been right about Matteo and that she had been wrong. And, of course, she had to write about the carriage accident—even thinking about that still made her shudder. At least Billy hadn’t been hurt any worse than he was. And if shecould stay awake, she might write about Gabriel’s assistance with stitching up Billy’s injury.
She got up from her bed, sat down at her desk, and prepared her pen and ink. “It may take more than this evening to get everything in here,” she whispered, silently vowing to do better with her diary. Ashlyn enjoyed updating her diary—she had been writing in one ever since she was thirteen, and found it calmed her. She had written volumes of diaries, all left on a special bookcase her father had built in their home in Connecticut.
Satisfied that she was ready, she dipped her pen and began.
Dear Diary,
Two entries in one day! I wish it were all good, but there is sadness and guilt and frustration blended into one knot that is twisting in my chest. Because I am continuing this ruse, these lies, to these good and kind people who have helped me and given me shelter. To them, I am an American heiress named Elizabeth Vickers. I am not. I am Miss Ashlyn March, daughter of a talented and successful physician and his equally talented wife, and while my parents have done well for themselves, they are in no way rich. I wish things had been different and that I could have just told the truth from the beginning, instead of being forced to lie and say I am Elizabeth.
Oh, my dear cousin, why did you put me into this situation? I suppose I cannot fault Elizabeth for falling in love with the Italian painter. Although her parents will be heartsick, furious, and devastated. Take your pick. I’m heartsick and worried about her myself. She claims he’s the son of a count, yet he borrowed money to elope to Italy. By now, she may have already become his wife.
“Let’s have our portrait painted! What lovely gifts we can give our parents,” Elizabeth had said in that way that only she could, with equal parts excitement and thirst for adventure.
I remember shaking my head. Having one’s portrait painted certainly did not constitute an adventure…or so I thought. As it turned out, it was an adventure of a lifetime for Elizabeth.
Oh, Elizabeth, I truly hope you are now happily married, and that your Italian painter is everything you dreamed he would be and more. And that you are both madly in love.
Dear Diary, I must confess that in a strange way, I welcomed the storm. Once we were out of danger, of course, I thought it would make it impossible for me to attend Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s house party and that eventually I could return to London and hide in our suite until Aunt and Uncle arrived. But Lady Ravensthorpe and Gabriel worked out a way for me to attend, insisting that Gabriel ride with me. With all the lies I’ve told in an effort to keep up this pretense, thanks to my cousin, how could I refuse?
Ironically, I had been looking forward to attending my first social event in England. Oh, I did not naïvely think that I would fall in love and meet my future husband. I am not full of such silly notions. The daughter of a physician would never be the belle of the ball.
But I was set to enjoy myself as Elizabeth’s cousin, happy to watch her charm every eligible bachelor in England. And hopefully meet someone who would make her heart flutter…the way Gabriel does mine. Ah, who am I to even presume to think that the Earl of Ravensthorpe might fall in love with me, Ashlyn March?
I wonder if Gabriel would have truly seen me if he had met me for the first time at the house party instead of here at his own home, where we have both had the gift of time and privacy to know each other. Here, at least, I am truly myself in every way except my name.
I don’t know the answer to that question.
But what I do know is that my feelings for Gabriel are growing with each passing hour. Just as my affection for his mother and Caro are growing. But I cannot appreciate it as myself. Instead, I must hidebehind a ruse. A lie. And I am in so deep that I must continue this charade and see it through to the bitter end.
Ashlyn shook her head, trying to dispel the troubling thoughts of her cousin. Her aunt and uncle would arrive soon, and she hoped Elizabeth would return before then.
I dread the thought of being the one left to explain Elizabeth’s elopement to her own parents. Somehow, all her schemes always land me in the position of enlightening my aunt and uncle. But this…this is different. Elizabeth should be here to tell her parents. For once, I do not want to be the intermediary between my willful cousin and her worried parents.
Nothing about Elizabeth’s elopement feels right. With each lie I am forced to tell, I feel myself falling deeper and deeper into a hole I am afraid I cannot escape. I don’t know what else to do except to keep up this ruse, for the sake of Elizabeth. But what about my sake? The sake of my honor? Yes, when I eventually return to America, I will likely never see or hear from these lovely people again. But in my heart, I will weep for the loss that my lies have cost.
