Julia London (44 page)

“She’s very weak. When she next awakens, get some broth down her,” the physician was saying. The laudanum worked quickly, and Abbey suddenly found it difficult to keep her eyes open. Weak was not good for her baby, she thought absently as the tingling warmth spread through her.

Baby
. Abbey forced her eyes open. “My baby!” she said hoarsely. Sarah exchanged an unmistakable look of pity with the doctor. “
My baby!
” Sarah turned away, her eyes wet, as Dr. Stephens grasped her hand.

“Now, now, don’t distress yourself. You weren’t very far along after all. You will have ample opportunity to bear other children …” Abbey didn’t hear anything else; she could barely comprehend what he implied.

She had lost her baby. Hot tears spilled down her cheeks, the pain in her side suddenly matched by a sharp pain in her
chest. She struggled to keep her eyes open; she had to know what had happened. But she was no match for the heavy dose of laudanum, and she slipped into oblivion, mourning her unborn child.

Dr. Stephens watched her slip away, then sighed wearily as he turned to Sarah, who was unabashedly wiping tears from her face. “Buck up, now, girl. You’ve got to make sure she takes some nourishment when she awakens. She’s extremely weak.” He started toward the door, then glanced back at Abbey.

“I had hoped to keep the unfortunate news from her a bit longer,” he said wistfully, then shrugged and walked out the door. He moved rapidly down the hall and winding marble staircase, then silently down the thick blue carpet of the corridor leading to the marquis’s study. After rapping sharply, he entered without waiting for an invitation.

Michael was seated behind his desk in a rumpled shirt opened at the neck and pulled from his trousers. His hair was wildly tousled and the dark stubble of a beard shadowed his chin and gaunt cheeks. His features were drawn and haggard; dark circles made his eyes appear sunken. He looked as if he had not slept in several days, and, of course, he had not. He stood when Dr. Stephens entered and came quickly around the desk.

The doctor frowned disapprovingly. “I am not sure which patient is in more need of my services,” he said dryly, heading for the sideboard.

“How is she?” Michael demanded.

“She’s very weak, but lucid. Her fever has broken for the moment, but I am still quite worried about infection. It appears she recalls nothing of the accident; my guess is that the trauma has blocked her memory.”

“
Will
she recall it?” he asked anxiously.

Dr. Stephens very slowly and thoughtfully shook his head. “I don’t know. These things are hard to predict, but I’d say there is an even chance she will recall everything. I’ve given her some laudanum for the pain and to help her sleep. She needs a great deal of bed rest and nourishment. She must take
broth over the next day or so, even if she doesn’t want it.” The doctor Stephens paused to sniff his brandy, observing Michael over the rim of his snifter.

“I must say, I am encouraged. It’s rather miraculous that she isn’t suffering more, given the length of her fever and the severity of her wound. Not to mention the physical trauma of losing a fetus.”

Michael nodded slowly, then sighed and thrust a hand through his hair.

“If you don’t get some sleep soon, you will suffer the consequence, I can assure you.” Michael gave him a very impatient look. “She’s not going anywhere, sir, and her prospects of recovering are vastly improved this morning. She will need your strength; you are not doing her a bloody bit of good like this,” the doctor scolded. “Should I prescribe laudanum for you, as well?

“I do not need any of your damned laudanum, Joseph,” Michael muttered.

“You don’t need any more whiskey, either. When was the last time you ate?” Dr. Stephens demanded.

“Two nights ago,” Jones stated from the doorway. His footfall silent on the Aubusson carpet, he carried a silver tray and covered plate to Michael’s desk.

“I insist you eat whatever is on that plate, Darfield. Then take a bath and go to bed. She’ll sleep through the day and probably the night. You can renew your vigil in the morning.”

“How long, Joseph? Before she fully recovers?” Michael asked, ignoring the food and Jones.

“She has to get past the threat of infection first. Until she fully recovers? A month at least, probably longer.”

“Will she be able to conceive again?” he asked quietly.

“I think the odds are no worse or no better than before. For now, the object is to get her strength back.”

Dr. Stephens set his snifter down and started toward the door. “Another thing, Darfield. See to it that she is not unduly excited. She must remain calm and get plenty of bed rest,” he instructed, “and so should you.” He motioned authoritatively
toward the covered dish. “Eat whatever Jones has served you, and get some sleep.” He walked to the open door and paused.

“There is one last thing. She knows she lost the babe.”

The pain on Michael’s face was instantaneous and moving. He quickly glanced away from the doctor and moved woodenly toward the large bank of windows overlooking the gardens below. “I had hoped to tell her,” he muttered helplessly.

“I had no choice; she suspected it.” With that, Dr. Stephens adjusted his spectacles. “I shall see you in the morning. Send for me if there is any change,” he said briskly, and left. Michael remained staring out over the gardens.

Behind him, Jones cleared his throat. “Your dinner, my lord.” Resigned, Michael turned and slowly walked to the desk, dropping heavily into the leather chair as Jones uncovered a bowl of beef stew. With the butler hovering directly behind him, Michael felt compelled to taste it, and found after a few bites that he was ravenous. Numb, he ate the entire serving as well as two chunks of bread.

Finally, he pushed the bowl away, feeling exhausted. Dr. Stephens was right; he needed a bath and some sleep. The last four days had been a nightmare for him. From the moment he had lifted her body from the ground, he had been on the verge of shattering. He bitterly recalled how he had rushed Abbey to London, only to be told by the doctor, after stanching the bleeding, that she had lost too much blood and likely would not live. Refusing to believe that dire prognosis, and concerned about the notoriety her injuries might receive in London, he had determined that Dr. Stephens would see to her. He had cradled her limp body in his arms for the two-hour ride to Blessing Park as her blood slowly escaped the bandages and seeped into his clothes. He had prayed fervently and awkwardly that God not take her from him.

Michael had never been a devout man and was at a loss how to ask for the help he needed. He begged, bargained, and promised his own life for hers if God would spare her. In helpless frustration he watched her, lying unconscious in her bed, tossing with fever, and growing paler with each passing day. He had passed each night at her bedside, imagining the
worst. At times, a small movement or sound from her made him dare to hope. But most of the time, he saw little change and despaired completely.

So when she had miraculously opened her eyes last night, relief and gratitude had washed over him so strongly that he had wept like a child. Never had he felt such powerful emotions, it was as if he had just escaped the hangman’s noose, had been given a second chance at life.

But it was not over yet. Dr. Stephens had warned him of the infection. And there would be more than the physical damage to deal with. Michael could not think of that now. The first task was to get her well, and Dr. Stephens was correct that his lack of sleep and food, coupled with copious quantities of whiskey, was impairing his ability to help her.

Pushing away from the desk, he told Jones to have a bath readied, and began walking wearily to his rooms. At the top of the staircase, he paused outside the door of her sitting room, which he seemed to do every time he was in the corridor. That room had been so full of life before they had gone to London. Bloody hell,
why
had he taken her there? Why had he been so eager to show her to the same society that had once shunned him? This never would have happened if they had remained at Blessing Park as she had wanted. He stared at the door for a long moment, then impulsively opened it and stepped inside.

It was as he remembered. Bright sunshine streamed in the windows. Magazines and books were strewn everywhere, and mounds of needlework were heaped near every seat. He walked slowly through the cheerful room, taking in every detail. Their things had been retrieved from London, and it looked as if she had never left. Near the fireplace, her violin case was propped against the hearth stones. He averted his gaze from the instrument before a deep sense of loss could invade him.

He moved to leave the room when his gaze fell upon the mound of sewing next to an overstuffed armchair. He stooped to pick up a piece of soft linen he vaguely recognized. It was her rendition of Blessing Park—she had told him that, but still, he could not make heads or tails of it. He smiled softly to
himself. The memory of her sitting in his study, laboring over that stitchery, made his heart ache. With one last look around the room, he tossed the linen down and quietly left the room.

The first rays of gray morning light were peeking in the windows when Abbey resurfaced. With a moan, she pressed her palm against her forehead; the pain behind her eyes was almost blinding. She struggled against her pillows and finally managed to raise herself an inch or two so she could see the room. On the green silk settee in front of the fireplace, Sarah slept.

“Sarah,” she called, noting her voice was stronger. The sleeping figure bolted upright and tossed a blanket aside. It was Michael who strode quickly to her bedside.

He sat gingerly on the side of the bed and leaned over her, his fingers wandering lightly down her cheek and neck. “Are you all right? How do you feel?” he whispered anxiously.

“Michael?” Abbey asked, uncertain why she should be surprised.

“Are you in pain?”

Abbey swallowed and closed her eyes, nodding slightly. ‘No laudanum, please,” she whispered.

He stroked her face again. “You must take some broth,” he murmured, and reached behind her to pull the bell cord.

“What happened?” she asked.

Michael smiled weakly. “It’s a long story, sweetheart. It will have to wait until you are stronger.”

“You are not supposed to be here,” she said uncertainly.

“I’m not?”

“I’m not supposed to be at Blessing Park.”

“You belong at Blessing Park,” Michael answered curtly, then immediately softened. “I brought you here so Dr. Stephens could attend you,” he murmured as he carefully brushed hair from her face.

“I fell, I think,” she said as the door opened behind them.

His gaze riveted on her eyes. “Do you remember the accident?” he asked slowly.

“Doctor said I was stabbed,” she added, confused.

Michael muttered something over his shoulder, then turned back to her with a gentle smile on his face. “I’m sorry, darling. You were wounded rather badly.”

“Did you see?”

His expression darkened. “I saw it, yes,” he muttered, sounding almost angry.

Abbey slid her gaze to the windows. Why couldn’t she remember? Michael absently stroked her cheek with the back of his knuckles.

“I don’t understand.” Something was wrong. She could not conceive of being cut, with a saber, no less. How had it happened?
Why
had it happened? And Michael was not supposed to be by her side.

“You should not be here,” she tried again.

“Perhaps not. But I am here, and I am not leaving you.” She realized he did not deny he should not be there. Something was undeniably and terribly wrong.

“It’s not right,” she attempted again. Michael’s face darkened as the door opened behind him.

Sarah appeared in Abbey’s view. “You are looking better all the time,” she lied, and set a silver tray on a table.

“How long …”

“Almost a week,” Michael answered softly.

A week?
The panic she could not seem to escape was mounting rapidly. “How bad?” she asked, the panic raising the pitch of her voice. Michael said something to Sarah, who immediately brought a bowl over to him.

“You must drink this broth, sweetheart,” he said, and forced a spoon between her lips.

Abbey swallowed, but caught his hand before he could force the second spoonful. “Will I recover?” she asked with alarm.

Michael’s eyes slipped to her mouth. “Of course you will,” he said, and spooned more of the broth down her. He was lying; it was plainly written on his face. Good God, she was going to die! No wonder she could barely move her limbs! She started to struggle. She heard Michael tell Sarah to
hold her arms and was aware that he was leaning over her, trapping her with his powerful body, forcing the broth down her throat.
Oh, dear God, please do not let me die! I am not ready to die!
Michael was wiping her mouth with a soft linen towel, saying something to her, but she could not hear him. Whatever had happened, for whatever reason she had been cut by a saber, she had lost everything. Her baby. Her health.
Michael
. She did not know why or how, but she
knew
she had lost him, too.

When Michael pressed the teacup to her lips, she jerked her head away, and the wrenching pain sent her tumbling downward into the black abyss.

After she had been bathed and her linens changed, Michael sat in a chair next to the bed, staring down at his ravaged wife who, for the moment, was resting peacefully. The lines that had appeared the last few days around her eyes were smooth in sleep, and even the dark circles and lack of color in her cheeks weren’t as noticeable. She looked angelic.

She also looked very helpless. He knew it would not be long before the dreams would come to her again, tormenting her as they had since they had begun administering the large doses of laudanum. Last night she had tossed and turned, crying out in her sleep and flinching with the pain of her own involuntary movement. He suspected memories were coming back to her in sleep that she had not yet connected with reality. He could only pray that she would regain her strength before she remembered it all.