Free The Frost Fair by Elizabeth Mansfield

be led away.
    As soon as Mrs. Rhys closed the door on them, Meg allowed herself to groan wearily. The pain in her ankle and the hammering in her head were bringing her close to the point of tears.
    â€œThere now, my lady, don’t you fret. We’ll ’ave ye comfortable in no time,” Mrs. Rhys murmured sympathetically. She bent over her patient, examining her carefully. With knowing fingers, she probed at the lump on the back of Meg’s head. “Don’t think anything’s broke in there,” she said with brisk authority, “but it wouldn’t surprise me none if ye ’ad the headache fer quite a while. Now let’s ’ave a look at that ankle.”
    She sat down on the bed and lifted Meg’s leg to her lap. Carefully unlacing the modish short-boot, she slowly eased the shoe from the foot, causing Meg to gasp with pain. The ankle was swollen to more than twice its size, and the discoloration of the skin could be seen right through her white silk stocking. “Poor lass,” the housekeeper sighed. “You’ll ’ave a troublesome night. But when the doctor binds it t’morra, it’ll feel much better, you’ll see.”
    Keeping up a stream of optimistic promises about the speedy way a youthful body heals itself, the kind, quick-fingered woman cut off her stocking, stripped off her clothing, washed her with a sweet-smelling, lotion-like liquid and slipped a clean muslin night-dress trimmed with lace over her head. “It belongs to Miss Trixie. She says she hopes ye’ll find it comfortable.”
    â€œDo thank her for me, Mrs. Rhys. You’ve all been very kind.”
    Mrs. Rhys was gently brushing the tangles from Meg’s thick hair when there was a knock at the door. “It must be my aunt,” Meg said, her brow knitted in pain and her mouth tense. “Be a dear, Mrs. Rhys, and tell her I’ve fallen asleep. She won’t sleep a wink either if she becomes worried about me.”
    But it was not Isabel at the door. Meg heard Sir Geoffrey’s voice in murmured conversation with the housekeeper. After a moment, Mrs. Rhys returned to her side and pulled a comforter over her. “It’s Sir Geoffrey, my lady, come to bandage yer ankle. Just let me cover you up a bit, an’ we can ’ave ’im in.”
    â€œBut I don’t want —” The sentence died on her lips, for Sir Geoffrey at that moment stepped into the circle of light thrown by the branch of candles on her night table. For a brief moment, he stood stock still and stared at her, a strange, arrested look in his eyes … almost as if he’d wandered into the wrong room. Instinctively, without realizing she was doing it, she pulled the comforter up to her neck. “Sir Geoffrey, what—?”
    He recovered himself at once. “I don’t mean to intrude, ma’am, but it occurred to me—and Mrs. Rhys concurs—that you’re not likely to get a wink of sleep with your ankle unbound. I’ve brought some bandages which we’ll be able to tie into a passable support which will do until the doctor gets here. And this drink I have here will help even more to put you to sleep.”
    â€œThat was very kind in you, sir, and I don’t wish you to think me ungrateful, but I scarcely think—”
    â€œA common affliction of females,” he interrupted caustically. “They ‘scarcely think’ at all.”
    â€œCome now, Sir Geoff, let’s ’ave none o’ yer sharp tongue,” Mrs. Rhys scolded. “Ye mustn’t mind, ’im, my lady. ’E’s always makin’ wicked remarks about our sex.”
    â€œYes, I’ve noticed that,” Meg muttered drily.
    â€œDid you hear that, Mrs. Rhys?” he asked as he came up to the patient’s side. “I’m not the only one with a sharp tongue. Here, ma’am, drink this down.”
    â€œNo, it looks dreadful. I don’t