A Night Like This (Smythe-Smith Quartet #2)(55)

“Still,” Lady Pleinsworth said with a wave of her hand, “you should be grateful. He carried you for over half a mile, you know. And he was injured himself.”
“I am grateful,” Anne said quietly. “Very much so.”
“The reins snapped,” Lady Pleinsworth told her. “I must say I am appalled. It is unconscionable that equipage in such poor repair would be allowed out of the stables. Someone will lose their position over this, I am sure.”
The reins, Anne thought. That made sense. It had all happened so suddenly.
“At any rate, given the severity of the accident, we must be thankful that neither of you was more seriously injured,” Lady Pleinsworth continued. “Although I’m told that we do want to watch you closely with that lump on your head.”
Anne touched it again, wincing.
“Does it hurt?”
“A bit,” Anne admitted.
Lady Pleinsworth seemed not to know what to do with that information. She shifted slightly in her seat, then squared her shoulders, then finally said, “Well.”
Anne tried to smile. It was ridiculous, but she almost felt as if she was supposed to try to make Lady Pleinsworth feel better. It was probably from all those years in service, always wanting to please her employers.
“The doctor will be here soon,” Lady Pleinsworth finally continued, “but in the meantime, I will make sure that someone tells Lord Winstead that you have awakened. He was most worried about you.”
“Thank—” Anne started to say, but apparently Lady Pleinsworth was not done.
“It is curious, though,” she said, pressing her lips together. “How did you come to be in his carriage in the first place? The last I saw him, he was here at Whipple Hill.”
Anne swallowed. This was not the sort of conversation that one wanted to treat with anything but the utmost of care. “I saw him in the village,” she said. “It started to rain, and he offered to drive me back to Whipple Hill.” She waited for a moment, but Lady Pleinsworth did not speak, so she added, “I was most appreciative.”
Lady Pleinsworth took a moment to consider her answer, then said, “Yes, well, he is very generous that way. Although as it turns out, you’d have done better to walk.” She stood briskly and patted the bed. “You must rest now. But do not sleep. I’ve been told you’re not to sleep until the doctor arrives to examine you.” She frowned. “I believe I will send Frances in. At the very least, she’ll keep you awake.”
Anne smiled. “Perhaps she might read to me. She hasn’t practiced reading aloud in quite some time, and I should like to see her work on her diction.”
“Ever the teacher, I see,” Lady Pleinsworth said. “But that’s what we want in a governess, isn’t it?”
Anne nodded, not quite certain if she had been complimented or told to remember her place.
Lady Pleinsworth walked to the door, then turned. “Oh, and as to that, don’t worry about the girls. Lady Sarah and Lady Honoria will be sharing your duties while you are recuperating. I’m sure between the two of them they can work out a lesson plan.”
“Maths,” Anne said with a yawn. “They need to do maths.”
“Maths it is, then.” Lady Pleinsworth opened the door and stepped into the hallway. “Do try to get some rest. But don’t sleep.”
Anne nodded and closed her eyes, even though she knew she shouldn’t. She did not think she would sleep, though. Her body was exhausted, but her mind was racing. Everyone told her that Daniel was all right, but she was still worried, and she would be until she saw him for herself. There was nothing she could do about it now, though, not when she could barely walk.
And then Frances bounded in, hopped onto the bed beside Anne, and proceeded to chatter her ear off. It was, Anne realized later, exactly what she needed.
The rest of the day passed peacefully enough. Frances stayed until the doctor arrived, who said that he wanted Anne to keep awake until nightfall. Then Elizabeth came, bearing a tray of cakes and sweets, and finally Harriet, who carried with her a small sheaf of paper—her current opus, Henry VIII and the Unicorn of Doom.
“I’m not certain Frances is going to be appeased by an evil unicorn,” Anne told her.
Harriet looked up with one arched brow. “She did not specify that it must be a good unicorn.”
Anne grimaced. “You’re going to have a battle on your hands, that’s all I’m going to say on the matter.”
Harriet shrugged, then said, “I’m going to begin in act two. Act one is a complete disaster. I’ve had to rip it completely apart.”
“Because of the unicorn?”
“No,” Harriet said with a grimace. “I got the order of the wives wrong. It’s divorced, beheaded, died, divorced, beheaded, widowed.”
“How cheerful.”
Harriet gave her a bit of a look, then said, “I switched one of the divorces with a beheading.”
“May I give you a bit of advice?” Anne asked.
Harriet looked up.
“Don’t ever let anyone hear you say that out of context.”
Harriet laughed aloud at that, then gave her papers a little shake to indicate that she was ready to begin. “Act two,” she read with a flourish. “And don’t worry, you shouldn’t be too confused, especially now that we’ve reviewed all the wifely demises.”
But before Harriet reached act three, Lady Pleinsworth entered the room, her expression urgent and grave. “I must speak with Miss Wynter,” she said to Harriet. “Please leave us.”