Note for the Americans among you: the football game mentioned here is of course the European game, the *real* one, which is actually played with your feet. ;-)

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Now that the snow was gone, suddenly a whole host of activities that had been in hibernation for the winter were taken up again. And traditionally, one of the first was always the boys' football.

Thanks to the minimal requirements for playing the game – all you really needed was something to kick and something to mark the location of the goals – it was a great favourite with the boys of Bakewell, and many a summer evening saw a feverish match being played out on the green behind the smithy.

It was not yet summer of course, and as yet, the evenings were still dark. But the sky was blue, the snow was mostly gone, and the worst of the chill was out of the air, so when Sunday services were over and everybody was milling about in the churchyard catching up with friends and neighbours, the boys quickly stuck their heads together and decided to meet on the green that afternoon.

"Papa," Henry accosted his father the moment he finished speaking with the vicar, "Can I go and play football this afternoon?"

"Sure," was Hartwell's reply. He rarely restricted his son's opportunities to play with other boys his age. "As long as you are home in time for dinner, alright?"

"Sure – it's dark by then."

And so after luncheon, Henry set off for Bakewell again with his best friend David Cooper (the son of one of the Matlock footmen). They decided to go on horseback, as that would be considerably faster in coming back, giving them more time to play. David was not much of a horseman, but they had a long-standing practice of sharing a horse, so that was no problem.

The afternoon went by in a real football frenzy. Soon, none of the boys were fit to be seen, with mud and grass stains covering their knees and sleeves, and their shoes all scuffed. But none of that mattered; after the long winter, they were having the time of their life again together.

The game lasted for hours. When you needed a breather, you simply volunteered to be the goalie for a while, but nothing short of a serious injury would have you step off the pitch.

They probably would have played on till doomsday come, if it had not been for the angry girl appearing on the green, yelling for her brother to come home for dinner – now.

That broke the spell.

Suddenly, Henry (as well as every other sweaty lad on the green) noticed it was getting dark already. And he cursed under his breath. "Zounds… David! We have to get home – we're late!"

The two teams scrambled to find all their discarded coats and waistcoats and for the richer among them, their cravats. Henry just threw on his waistcoat and coat without buttoning them; his cravat got stuffed in his pocket. David in the meantime untied their horse, and held it as Henry mounted. A nearby fence helped David to climb up behind him, and as soon as he felt his friend's arms around his waist, Henry set off for home at a fast trot.

It wasn't far – little more than three miles. But Henry knew all too well he was not supposed to ride in the dark without supervision. Not to mention the fact that he was definitely going to be late for dinner. So he yelled for David to hold on, and spurred on his horse as fast as he dared in the quickly descending dusk – out of the village, following the path up the slope, round the bend, and then the long way gradually down towards…

Out of nowhere, suddenly something big fluttered across the path. The horse reared in fright, surprising both its riders and throwing them off.

Henry crashlanded on the path with a thud, only to hear the horse gallopping off.

"Blast," he muttered, and carefully rolled onto his back to sit up. And groaned. His whole right side felt bruised, but other than that, he seemed to be in one piece. Not bleeding at least.

He carefully tried to roll his right shoulder, and hissed. It hurt, but he could still move it. It should be alright.

"David?"

No answer.

"David, are you alright?" He scrambled to his feet and hobbled over to where his friend lay prone in the grass beside the road. "David?"

No reaction.

"David?" Stiffly, he knelt by his friend's side to shake him. "David? Are you alright?"

A note of panic was creeping into his voice. David lay there so still… And he seemed awfully pale in the quickly fading light. Was he…?! "David?!"

And that was when he saw it: David's head had hit a rock by the wayside, and a steady trickle of blood was seeping off the stone onto the path.

"No… David! Lord, no – please no!" Tears sprung to his eyes, but angrily, he brushed them away. No time to cry – he had to help David!

A shuddering breath. David needed help. What first?

The bleeding! Of course – he had to stop the bleeding!

He pulled out his handkerchief and pressed it against the wound. David did not react at all, and it got soaked through in a matter of minutes. Something else: his cravat.

It took some doing to get it out of his pocket on his bruised side, but the cravat, too, bled through pretty quickly.

Dammit, he needed help!

He began to shrug out of his coat to use that for a bandage. The movement painfully reminded him that he was not exactly in peak condition himself either.

But David was infinitely worse: he was bleeding, and unconscious. Or…

No. He refused to go there.

He swallowed down a sob. David needed help. And there was no one but he who could go and get it for him.

Pushing through the pain in his arm, he lodged his bunched up coat under David's head. At least that would catch a lot of blood.

Or maybe he should turn him on his other side? So the blood would no longer drip out of the wound?

He tried it, but David was a dead weight, and his own muscles were not exactly cooperative either.

He swallowed down another sob and sat back on his heels. He needed help – David needed help. Bakewell was still far closer than home, and it was Dr. Potter he needed the most. But could he leave David here on his own – bleeding, vulnerable and defenceless? On foot, it was about twenty minutes from here to Bakewell – faster if he could run, but he doubted his body could manage that right now. And with the wolves and other beasts of prey around here that came out at night…? If they caught on to the scent of blood, they could have ravished David before he even made it to Bakewell!

So what should he do?! Wait here with David to protect him until he bled to death? Or go to Bakewell for help and risk David being eaten by wolves?

It seemed there just was no good choice.

Once more, he shook David's shoulder. He had much rather his friend made the decision himself as to what risk he was willing to face.

But David remained unresponsive. It was really up to him then.

He swallowed down another sob and listened carefully. All the usual sounds of the early night – it was really dark by now, with just a half moon high in the sky for illumination. But at least he could not hear any wolves howling.

"Please, Lord," he whispered. "Please watch over him and keep him safe till I get back."

With one last look at his prone friend by the wayside, he struggled to his feet. And winced. There was definitely not going to be any running.

"Stay safe, David. I'll be back with help. You just hold on."

Back at Matlock, things were still blissfully quiet. Hartwell was enjoying a relaxed afternoon participating in the rather disparate activities of his two youngest, and Miss Kenway had taken the opportunity to once again consult Mrs Davies on the recent developments.

Mrs Davies however could not resist teasing her. "A mere fortnight ago you had no idea what to do with his proposal, and look at you now: you are a courting woman!"

Philippa blushed, and chuckled a little. "I know. I can still scarce believe it myself."

"So how does it feel?"

"Special," was her reply after a moment of contemplation. "I know it is only little more than an hour a day that we are actually courting – in the conventional way, I mean. But to know that someone is seriously considering me for marriage – and someone I really like – it makes me feel incredibly special."

"Good." Marie patted her hand. "You deserve to feel special."

They sipped their tea in silence for a while, and Marie offered her another biscuit.

"So why are you not enjoying his company now?"

She shook her head. "Sunday afternoon has always been his private time with the children. Besides, can you imagine courting under their watchful eyes?"

"They will have to know at some point."

"I know. But we would prefer to keep it between us for now. It is simply too early to involve them. Just think of the additional trouble we would have to deal with if they knew, and then it all came to nothing. So preferably not until we are reasonably certain about a positive outcome."

Marie sighed. "I suppose you are right. After all, most courting couples don't start off with three children in tow."

Philippa nibbled on her biscuit. Their courtship was rather unconventional, she supposed. Especially since their relationship of master and governess was still by far the dominant one. Somehow, they would have to get past that, but she was not sure how that…

"You know," Marie interrupted her reverie. "I did think the other day that you two seemed to be getting more comfortable around each other."

"Do you think so?"

Marie nodded. "More courting couple, less master and governess."

It was Philippa's turn to heave a sigh. "That is going to be one of our greatest hurdles, I am afraid. Those roles are so ingrained in us after eight years… And considering that most of the day, we still are master and governess… How is one hour courting a day going to change that?"

Marie couldn't quench a smile. "Would you care for my opinion on that?"

Pippa raised an eyebrow.

"I dare say you two are doing just fine. He may be your master, but he does not just order you about all day, does he. He listens to you, he values your opinion, and when you discuss the children, he treats you as an equal."

Pippa huffed. "When it is about the children, yes. But…"

Marie interrupted her. "Why – does he order you about and ignore your opinion on every other subject?"

"Well… no," she was forced to admit.

"Look at it this way." Marie put down her tea and took Pippa's hands in her wrinkled ones. "For the past eight years, you have been his partner already in raising the children. From what I have seen, he treats you as his equal in that task. I don't believe he would treat you any different if you were the children's mother. The crux of the matter is, that you are not their mother, so he is obliged to pay you for taking on that role. And it is only that payment that makes him your master. Not his behaviour towards you."

Pippa snorted a laugh. "If you put it like that, I will start believing that he wants to marry me in order to economize."

"I am sure you know better than that," Marie chided lightly.

"Oh, that is right: he mentioned once that as his wife, I would have eight hundred pounds per annum in pin money alone. So marrying me would actually make me more expensive."

They chuckled together at that.

"My point is," Marie said, "That the master-governess relationship exists mainly in your minds. In reality, there is not much of a master-subordinate relationship between the two of you. I believe it is more of a mental hurdle than a real one."

Philippa sighed. "Maybe."

They sat in silence for a while, watching the sun making glittering diamonds in the stream beyond. But when Marie poured them a second cup of tea, Pippa asked, "Marie, you have known the master pretty much all his life, haven't you."

Marie had a fond smile. "He had just celebrated his first birthday when I joined the household."

"Can you… Can you tell me about his childhood? What was he like as a boy?"

A beaming smile lit up Marie's face. "With pleasure. What would you like to know?"

"Anything that comes to mind."

"Oh. Well." A pause. "His name is Stephen. Did you know that?"

She nodded. "I believe I have picked that up from the Colonel some time. I rather like it. It suits him; he is a real Stephen."

Marie smiled. "He is indeed. Though I believe dear Dicky is the only one who still calls him that. For everyone else he is Hartwell."

"So what was he like as a little boy?"

Another fond smile. "A treasure. A real Goldilocks, with big grey-blue eyes like Henry's, and the biggest heart in the world, like Ginny. I remember he was always bringing wounded animals into the nursery, expecting us to fix them with a kiss and a bandage."

Pippa chuckled at the image.

Mrs Davies mock-scowled at her. "Mind you, not all the animals were actually all that wounded. I particularly recall a wild rabbit that escaped us and went on a rampage through the house. It took us hours to finally chase the poor animal outside, with the master on our heels, anxiously imploring us please not to scare him."

Her smile widened. "He sounds like a wonderful boy."

"Oh, he was. Definitely. And always asking questions: why is this, why that. About things you wouldn't believe a little boy would think about." She smiled at the memory. "Yes, he was quite the thinker. Quite serious, too. It was instilled in him very early on that he had to fulfill his duties impeccably, or others would suffer. That he was responsible for the well-being of other people – especially for his brother, God rest his soul, who was but a year his junior. Of course that backfired terribly, the poor lad."

"You mean the brother who died?"

Marie nodded. "The two were inseparable from the moment little Gregory could walk. They were not just brothers; they were the best of friends – with little Stephen always looking out for his brother.

"Stephen was sent off to school when he was six, and Gregory joined him a year later. They didn't have it easy, being among the youngest in the crowd, but at least now they had each other. Until an epidemic of scarlet fever raged through the school. Stephen was one of the first to get caught up in it, and Gregory joined him in the infirmary a few days later, just when Stephen was beginning to improve. But when poor Stephen woke up from his first good night's sleep in days, the bed next to his was empty, and he was told that his brother had died during the night." She shuddered. "Can you imagine? He had been told all his life that he had to look out for his brother, and take care of him. And now, while he slept, he had let Gregory die in the bed right next to his!"

"That must have been awful," Pippa murmured horrified. The poor master…

"From what I gathered," Marie continued, "He begged his father to be allowed to come home. But his father refused, citing a similar experience in his youth. He said he would have to learn to live with loss. That it was part of becoming a man. And that he was better off being among other boys who had lost friends and brothers." She sighed. "Much as he esteems his father, I don't believe he ever quite forgave him for that."

They were silent for a bit, contemplating the master's horrid experience.

"How old was he?" Pippa quietly inquired at last.

"Eight. So Philip's age." Marie sighed. "I can still see him hovering in the doorway to the nursery when he finally came home for the holidays. He was skin over bones, and so pale, and his eyes so huge and troubled in that peaky face…" A sigh. "He couldn't make himself to cross the threshold into the rooms that held so many memories of Gregory. But when I went to meet him, he threw himself in my arms and cried for what seemed like hours. I confess I quite resented his father at that point."

"The poor boy..." Philippa shuddered, and blinked back a tear. "Did his parents not support him at all?"

"Not really." Marie shook her head. "But before you condemn them, remember that it is common practice in their circles to let nurses and governesses completely take care of the children. Lord Hartwell is quite the exception there – and I dare say I love him for it."

"Yes." Pippa had a watery smile. "He is a wonderful father, isn't he."

Marie nodded. "He sure is. And I can't help wondering if he is just determined to do a better job than his own father.

"Either way, the year that followed was very difficult for him. He even ran away from school, which got him into an awful lot of trouble. I believe that is when he got so serious about fencing; just to have something else to focus on. On top of that, his father the Earl had demanded another spare from his wife, so little Dicky was born the following summer. But the master refused to have anything to do with his new brother; he thoroughly resented him for taking Gregory's place." She chuckled suddenly. "That was hard to keep up though when Richard grew up to totally idolize his big brother. At least it got Lord Hartwell over his resentment, and when little Dicky started school, he was even more protective of him than he had been of poor Gregory. Well, of course that was easier as a fifteen-year-old fencing champion than as a scrawny eight-year-old."

Pippa smiled.

And Marie let out a sigh. "Don't misunderstand me; he has known happy times as well. But I believe these experiences have really shaped him. But I also recall for example how much he loved being initiated in his future tasks as estate manager. That was when he really built up a relationship with his father. But generally, I remember him to be quite serious. Diligent. Polite. Intelligent. Caring. Conscientious in his duties. With a keen sense of honour and justice, and a strong awareness of his responsibilities towards those in his care." She smiled. "Basically, a young version of the man we know today."

Carefully, and certainly slower than he wanted to, Henry began to hobble back to Bakewell. His knee was stiff and painful; in fact, the whole right side of his body was protesting, but he did his best to ignore the pain. He had to get help for David; he could wallow in self-pity later. The whole accident was his fault after all; he should not have ridden so fast in the semi-darkness. That stupid pheasant or whatever it had been…

He just hoped Cassandra had simply run back home. If she arrived back home without them, surely they would send out someone in search of them. They might even find David before he got back with Dr. Potter. That was perhaps the best outcome; too bad he could not rely on Cassandra to run straight home.

It took considerably longer than twenty minutes to get back to the centre of Bakewell. Exhausted, and nearly in tears for relief of having made it, he let the knocker come down on the doctor's door.

A man-servant opened. "Yes, young man?"

Henry swallowed. "Is… is Dr. Potter in?" Heaven forbid he was not! "Please. It's my friend, David Cooper. He needs help."

The man gestured for him to come in, and he was led to a small parlour. "Wait here." An oil lamp was lit. "I will fetch the doctor for you."

Henry had barely lowered himself onto one of the high-backed chairs when the doctor hurried in, causing him to quickly rise again. Too quickly really – he nearly lost his balance.

"Master Fitzwilliam?! What happened? You look…!"

"No, I'm alright," Henry interrupted him. "It's my friend, David Cooper. My horse got frightened by a pheasant or something and threw us. David hit a rock when he landed, and he is bleeding, and unconscious."

"Bleeding where?"

"His head. The side of his head. I tried to stop it, but there was so much blood…! And he wouldn't wake up and… and the horse had run off and… and the wolves and…" His voice got higher and higher, until he nearly choked.

"Calm down, lad," the doctor said. "You did good. Where is he?"

"On…" A gulp. "On the road to Matlock. On the other side of the hill, just past the bend."

"Good. Don't worry – I will go to him. And how about you – are you alright?"

Henry nodded. "Just scrapes and bruises really."

"Good. Then I want you to take a horse and quickly go home, and ask for someone to meet me at the site of the accident with a cart, so we can transport David home. Can you do that?"

Another swallowed sob. "But my horse…"

"No, we will get you a horse from the inn. Thompson!" he called.

The servant appeared in the doorway. "Sir?"

"Thompson, can you go with Master Fitzwilliam to the inn and get him a horse? He needs to get home to Matlock quickly to get transportation for his injured friend."

"Of course, sir. Master Fitzwilliam?" He gestured for Henry to lead the way, but Henry hesitated.

"Will you…?" he half-asked the doctor.

"I am going straight to your friend. I will probably see you later," he promised. "Now go!"

The inn was just a few houses down across the street, and he saw the doctor riding off before the stable boy had even begun to saddle his horse. At least it would be only a few more minutes now till David got help. If only the wolves…!

"Come," Thompson said. "Up you go."

Mounting a horse however turned out to be sheer impossible when your whole right side is burning, sore and stiff. Thompson in the end had to help him get up in the saddle. Normally, that would have been utter humiliation, but by now, Henry was beyond caring. He just wanted to get home and get help for David.

He thanked the man, and rode off at a slow trot. His shoulder really bothered him, and he did not dare to ride fast in the dark on a horse he did not know. And he certainly did not want to be thrown again.

It was indeed not far past the bend that he saw a horse tied to a low branch. And Dr. Potter kneeling by the wayside.

Henry held in his horse. "How is he?"

Dr. Potter looked up. "The bleeding has stopped, so that is good. I don't see any obvious fractures, but he has not come to yet. We really ought to get him inside; it is getting too cold here. You better go on."

"But is he…" A gulp. "Is he going to die?"

"I cannot tell yet, lad," was the solemn reply. "So you better go on and get him that cart, so we can get him out of the cold."

Henry did as he was told, and he just could not hold back the tears when he finally reached the Matlock stables and Jackman came out to greet him.

"Master Henry, where have you been?! Do you know what time it…? Wait." He frowned. "That's not one of our horses. What happened?"

Henry struggled to swallow his tears. "It's David. He is hurt. Unconscious. We need a cart. To bring him home."

"David Cooper? Where is he?"

"By the road. The doctor is with him. He needs help." He shivered; it suddenly dawned on him that he was freezing. Indeed, it was pretty chilly to be out in just shirtsleeves and waistcoat.

"Alright; I'll take care of it. You better go inside; no doubt your father is getting worried as well. And you'd better tell Mr Cooper what happened, too, so he can come with me." He turned and went back into the stables. "Langley!" Henry heard him call. "Help me hitch up that cart. Quick, man!"

And he just sat there. Exhausted. On his borrowed horse. With the tears streaming down his face.

Yes, he needed to get off. He knew he needed to get off. He needed to go and get David's father, and…

But the mere thought of swinging his leg over the horse's back and landing on the ground while he held on to the saddle made him quail…!

He tried. He honestly tried to summon the strength to dismount. But whether it was strength or courage he lacked, he seemed totally incapable of getting down off his horse. For no doubt it would hurt. Badly. Very badly. As sore and stiff as he was, was he even able to perform the manoeuvre?

He was still sitting there on his patient horse, trying to summon the necessary strength and courage when the stable doors opened and Jackman led the horse and cart out of the stables.

"Are you still here?" he asked, a touch of annoyance tinging his voice. "Get off, inside with you. You are not coming with me, if that's what you're hoping for."

"No, but…" A half sob, a shuddering breath. "Can you please help me down?"

"Why – are you hurt, too?" Jackman held in the horse he was leading and came over to him. "What happened?"

A sob. "Cassandra threw us and ran off. There… there was a pheasant or something, and she reared. David hit a rock, and I landed on the road. So I'm not really hurt – just sore. And stiff. But David…" He nearly choked on his tears. "What if he dies? And it's all my fault; we were late, so I was going too fast in the dark, and…"

"Now calm down, lad. First let's get you off that horse: feet out of the stirrups, and just slide off. I'll catch you."

Jackman's strong arms waiting for him finally gave him the courage to attempt to dismount. So he got his feet out of the stirrups and screwed his eyes shut, bracing for the impact as he slowly, carefully, slid off the beast.

And whimpered in pain as Jackman grabbed him under the armpits before his left foot hit the ground.

Jackman raised his eyebrows as he put him down on his feet. "Sounds like you're pretty hurt yourself, too, lad. Are you sure you're alright?"

"Yeah. Just scrapes and bruises." He bit his lip. "My whole right side feels like one big bruise."

"In that case, you better go and see your father then; I'll send Langley to fetch Cooper. And don't worry too much, alright? If Dr. Potter is with him, he'll do everything in his power to pull David through."

Hartwell by now had gone through a whole gamut of emotions: from exasperation through irritation, annoyance, and anger, and by now he was getting seriously worried. Impatiently, he waited for Philip and Ginny to finish their desserts. He himself had forsaken the sweet; he was too much on tenterhooks to go and look for Henry. I mean, being late for dinner was one thing, but nearly an hour?! Something must have happened!

It was therefore with equal part shock and relief when the door to the dining-room was pulled open and a severely bedraggled and disheveled Henry appeared on the threshold.

Hartwell was immediately on his feet. "Henry! Where have you been?! What happened?"

"I'm… I'm sorry I'm late," Henry stammered – only to completely fall apart.

"What happened?!" Hartwell strode across the room in a few long strides and took his son in his arms.

Henry winced noticeably, but his father's protective embrace was too welcome to complain. Finally he was allowed to cry. "It's David…!" he sobbed. "He's going to die…!"

"What?!"

"He… Dr. Potter said… Cassandra threw us, and… he hit his head… And all this blood… and he wouldn't… wouldn't wake up, and… and Dr. Potter couldn't tell if he would live…!"

Hartwell closed his eyes and bit his lip, and held his son close. He knew what this was like. Gregory…

But this was not the time to wallow in the old regrets and self-recriminations. Henry needed him. Badly. And he was determined to do his darned best to support his son better than his own father had at the time.

When there seemed little indication that Henry's crying was going to cease any time soon, Hartwell looked back at his two youngest. "You two, finish your dessert, and then you go straight to the nursery, alright? Mrs Davies or Miss Johnson are bound to be there soon."

"Yes, sir," came it quietly from Ginny, and Philip nodded, too.

"John." With an authoritative jerk of the head, Hartwell summoned the hovering footman closer. "Several things; you can leave the clearing of the table till later. First: Henry needs a hot bath. And I want a good fire both in his dressing-room and in his bedroom. Henry, where is Dr. Potter taking David?"

"I don't know," Henry hiccoughed, attempting in vain to rein in his crying. "Jackman and his father went to get him."

"Right, we had better intercept them then. If the boy has been lying out there for an hour or so, he is probably half frozen by now. We had better get him here. So send someone over to the Coopers to arrange that. And tell Mrs Keith to get a guest room ready for him, with a blazing fire and lots of extra blankets and hot water bottles. You got that?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Then go."

He rubbed his son's back to comfort him, but immediately stopped when Henry flinched and his breath caught. "You are hurt, too, aren't you!"

Henry hiccoughed. "Just scrapes and bruises. I'll be alright. But it's all my fault…!" He started bawling again, and Hartwell turned to the maid by the sideboard. "Betty, can you get him some tea, please – hot and sweet."

The maid curtseyed. "Yes, sir. Right away, sir."

She, too, disappeared, and Hartwell led his son to a chair. But the boy refused to leave the safe cocoon of his father's embrace.

With a sigh, Hartwell sent the still hovering Ginny and Philip on their way, too. The tea arrived soon after, and more effectively managed to calm Henry down.

"Now what happened," Hartwell gently coaxed him once the tea was gone. "You said Cassandra threw you. Why was that your fault?"

Henry shivered, and took a shaky breath. "Because we were so late." And the whole story just poured out, until, "And Dr. Potter, he said… he said he didn't know yet if David would live…" He brushed at some new tears. "It is all my fault. If I hadn't…"

"Henry," his father interrupted him. "Listen to me. You made a mistake, yes. That is bad, but it can happen to anyone. I assure you I have quite a few to my own name. But after the mistake, it sounds like you handled the situation really well: you did what you could to stop the bleeding, and then you went for help. That was good."

"But what if David dies?" the boy tearfully insisted. "That would still be my fault, wouldn't it?"

"So we are going to do everything in our power to help him get better – that will be your way of atoning for your mistake."

"How," was the sullen reaction.

"We are going to keep him here, warm and comfortable, in a bed of his own – did you not say once that he shares his bed at home with his little brother?"

Henry nodded.

"There you go. When you are sick and hurt, it is probably much nicer not to be bothered by little brothers. And you got Dr. Potter to attend him, and Dr. Potter is the best. Of course we will pay for his services and anything David needs. And his parents can stay with him in the room, and anything David needs will be provided."

"But what if he still dies?" Henry began to cry again. "He was going to be my valet!"

Hartwell had to take a deep breath first. "Then we will have to deal with that, Son." He squeezed the boy's knee in comfort. "But don't despair yet. Let us wait and see what Dr. Potter says once he has examined him in the light. And David might also improve simply for being out of the cold."

Henry made no reply.

"Come on." Another squeeze. "Your rooms should be reasonably warm by now, and your bath at least halfway filled. Would you like me to attend you so we can talk some more? Or shall I summon John to help you?"

"You."

"Come on then. We will have them send word as soon as they get here with David."

Hartwell helped his son bathe and dress for the night, and carefully tucked him in – as if he were a little boy.

Henry's whole right side indeed was tender, and showed the beginnings of some major contusions. No wonder the poor boy moved so stiffly. Mrs Keith's secret liniment seemed to help though, and he gently and liberally rubbed it into Henry's sore limbs.

Word had already reached them by then that David had been successfully retrieved, and although cold, confused and in pain, the doctor had managed to rouse him and keep him awake. So that was good.

Henry had wanted to go and see him right away, but Hartwell had easily argued that David needed Dr. Potter more right now, and he could go and see him tomorrow. And as it was, Henry was too sore and too tired to put up much of a protest.

Walking across to the guest wing, Hartwell looked in on Ginny (fast asleep already) and Philip (idem), and hesitated in front of Miss Kenway's door. Could he…?

But immediately, Mrs Davies's stern glare appeared before his mind's eye, and he chuckled tiredly. No, probably not. He would have to fill her in tomorrow morning – if she had not heard the tale already. Come to think of it, apart from attending Sunday services, what did she do on her days off? He had no idea really. He would have to ask her about that.

But first he would go and inquire after David, report the situation to Henry, and then he would go to bed.

Halfway the night however, his sleep got interrupted by a knock on his door and a hesitant voice calling, "Papa?"

The interruption did penetrate his sleep; however, it took a moment or two for realization to set in.

"Papa?" Another knock.

"Yes?" He sat up. "Come in!"

The door slowly opened, and there was Henry, clad only in nightdress and slippers – no dressing gown – and carrying a sconce. "Papa?"

"What is wrong?" One of the children waking him in the middle of the night?! In nearly fourteen years of fatherhood, this had never happened before! (Though to be fair, he did recall reports about this or that child waking the nurses over some trifle. But should they not be past that by the time they reached adolescence and got their own rooms?)

Meanwhile, Henry shifted uneasily. "I…" He gulped. "I can't sleep."

His father couldn't quite stifle a scowl. "You woke me up just to tell me that?!" Some trifle indeed!

"No, it's…" Henry equally failed in stifling a sob, and Hartwell relented a little. His little boy and all that… His little boy was his little boy after all – even at a quarter past three in the morning. And his little boy indeed had had quite a day.

"Henry, the last I heard, David was doing quite alright. The bleeding had all but stopped, and that he was feverish was to be expected after lying on the half frozen ground for so long. But a concussion usually heals quite well simply with bedrest. So don't worry too much, alright?"

"No, it's… it hurts!" the boy blurted out.

"Your arm?" Hartwell frowned.

"Everything." Tears were creeping into the boy's voice. "I don't know how to lie! No matter how I turn, it hurts."

And Hartwell sighed. "I am not surprised; you must have made quite a thud. But what do you expect me to do about it?"

"Well, can't you…" The boy swallowed. "Can't you put some more of that liniment on it? Please? That seemed to help."

"Oh, alright." With a big sigh, Hartwell threw aside the covers. "Maybe we should have Dr. Potter check you out after all, eh? Come on – I left the liniment bottle in your room."