Chapter 15

CHAPTER 15

The door was jammed.

From atop the overturned carriage, Simon smashed his boot through the window. Broken glass rained down, pinging off everything beneath. Adrenaline numbed his panic. He worked quickly—reaching his hand past the jagged edges, fumbling for the latch, jostling the door free, ripping it back.

Georgina.

She lay crumpled on top of the opposite door, shards of glass littering her body. She was as white as Ruth had been.

Lord, not again. He eased himself inside, the carriage creaking around him, and hunched next to her. "Miss Whitmore." The words came out on a rasp. "Miss Whitmore." When she did not stir, he slipped two fingers below her earlobe.

Her distinct heartbeat steadied his own.

She was alive.

For now.

With careful movements, he picked the glass from her face, her hair, her dress. His fingers bled. She bled too. How could this happen?

When he'd awakened halfway down the grassy slope, evening had already slipped into dusk. The driver was gone. Had the man been paid to lose control of the reins? Or had he gone for help?

Shifting to a sitting position, Simon straightened Georgina's body and pulled her partway into his arms. Strange, that he should be holding her this way. He had sat beside her, at a proper distance, on parlor settees. He had even brushed her elbow a time or two on quiet carriage rides.

But now she conformed to him.

He felt her heartbeat.

Her breath.

Her hair, soft and disarrayed, against his arm.

He could not have sentiment for her. He knew that. He loved his wife, and any emotion he could ever feel for another woman would only be an echo of what he had lost. It did not matter that Miss Georgina Whitmore had risked her life for his children. It did not matter that she believed in him. That she loved him. That she listened, truly listened, to everything he ever said.

He could never have her and she could never have him.

Perhaps many years ago.

But not now.

Closing his eyes, leaning his head against the back of the carriage, Simon shifted her closer than he meant to—and pretended, just for a moment, all his reasoning was untrue.

Fingers moved the hair across her forehead, easing away the blackness. Agnes. She tried the name, but it wasn't right.

The fingertips scraped against her skin, as if with calluses. They were hesitant. Slow. Loving, somehow.

Another thing that could not be right, but she hurt too much to think. Instead, she forced her eyes open. More darkness swallowed her, save for the faint glow of moonlight shafting in from above. Terror smote her chest.

Broken glass.

The carriage overturned.

Simon.

She raised her head, leaned up on her arm, then fell back with a hissing intake of breath. Pain tingled. "Where—"

"Just lie still." He situated her back against him, her neck falling back into the crook of his arm. "Let me see."

She was not prepared for him to reach over her, for his probing, for the pain that coiled through her arm—and deeper. The last thing she ever wanted to be was this close to him.

Because she wanted it too much.

Had always wanted it, even from the beginning.

"It's injured but not broken." His whisper fell over her. "Do you hurt anywhere else?"

Did she? "No."

"The driver is gone. I had hoped he would return, but it has been dark too long."

"Are you…" She stumbled over the sentence, as her eyes swept up to his face. She searched his chest, his neck, his jaw, lips, eyes. Moonlight made him faint and shadowed, like a figment from her dreams. "Are you injured?"

"No."

"You should have left."

"I could not leave you." He looked away. "Not until you had awakened."

"I am awake now." If she had strength, she would have moved.

He didn't move either. Likely because he feared, in so cramped a position, the jostling would cause her pain. Or the broken glass would pierce her skin. Or any other reason except what pulsed in her soul.

The need to be held.

To hold.

"They want me dead." He glanced down at her. "I will return you to the hunting lodge in Hertfortshire. My mother will be going too, it is hidden, and the two of you will be safe—"

"I wish to go to Hollyvale. With you."

"No."

"Perhaps this was an accident—"

"It was no more accident than someone stabbing a knife in my flesh, and I will not have you suffering for dangers that belong to me."

"Perhaps you need someone." She tried to pull them back, the wretched sentiment, but it poured out faster. "Someone to suffer with you."

"I had someone."

"Your wife."

"Yes."

"I had someone too." How strange it was, to mention Papa this way, knowing Simon knew what no one else did. "But they are gone."

If she had known the words would haunt his eyes that way, she would not have said them. If she knew, she would have taken them back.

He eased himself out from under her, every movement careful, every touch soft and comforting as he ripped off his coat and tucked it beneath her head. "I will return with help."

She wanted to beg him to stay.

But he was gone before the plea could make it past her tear-clogged throat.

Hours passed in darkness before the faint glow of lights appeared overhead. Two male servants, likely from Hollyvale, climbed inside and lifted her up.

Simon was among the lantern-lit shadows waiting above, but it was someone else who pulled her against him.

Mr. Oswald. He smelled of vanilla and sherry, a strange contrast to the wild scents of the night and the metallic odor of blood.

"Do not worry. I've a doctor already waiting in my carriage, along with blankets and enough vials of medicine to pacify any injury." He carried her to the vehicle, ordered a servant to open the door, and situated her inside before she could see more of Simon.

"I am Dr. Morpeth," said an older gentleman. "We shall do much better, I daresay, in the candlelight of Hollyvale, but if you would be so kind as to extend your arm." The frizzy-haired physician pulled her arm into his lap, as Mr. Oswald squeezed in on the other side of her.

The harsh lights, the low and foreboding ripples of conversation dazed her senses and pounded at her temples. She craned her neck to see out the window as the carriage began to move. Where was Simon?

He should be here.

He should be examined too.

"Please, stop." She tried to extract her arm from the doctor's grip. "Mr. Fancourt. I must speak with Mr. Fan—"

"You are overwrought, Miss Whitmore, after so trying an ordeal."

Mr. Oswald grasped her free hand and squeezed. "Mr. Fancourt shall be awaiting us when we arrive at Hollyvale. I promise."

But when the carriage finally rolled through the Hollyvale gates, when they carried her inside, when she was bustled into a guest chamber and overwhelmed with more ministrations, Simon was nowhere.

All through the bandaging, she gritted her teeth in pain and watched the doorway. Any moment he would stride through. He would sit next to her. He would squelch her panic with his confidence, his calmness, his strength.

Not until everyone had left and the room was black and silent did she finally cease watching the doorway.

He was not coming at all.

He did not know what to do, so he borrowed a horse and rode back to Sowerby. The house was still. A few of the windows glowed a soft white in the blackness, the light soothing and comforting, as if all was at peace in the world.

He wanted to bash his fists into something.

Into someone.

Lord, what do I do? He entered the house, found Mr. Wilkins in a rickety hall chair outside the children's servant chamber, and inquired if anything had been amiss.

"All is well and quiet," assured the butler, stifling a yawn.

Simon yawned too, but he was not tired. Nervous energy ticked through him, rushing the blood to his face, as he left Sowerby as quickly as he had come.

Now what?

He had to do something. Perhaps find the driver, the little weasel of a man, and rip him apart until all the truth came spilling out.

Until Simon knew, once and for all, who had been orchestrating everything.

Riding with the night wind whipping at his face, Simon leaned forward and gained speed. Air roared in his ears. He was entangled too deep. Mother was endangered. His children.

Miss Whitmore.

Ever since he'd fled Hollyvale, he had resisted her. He had fought away the images of her body crumpled in the carriage. The memory of her against him. The words he only now let surface again: "Perhaps you need someone to suffer with you."

Why that comforted and enraged him, he did not know.

He was afraid.

Perhaps because part of him wanted to need her. Or heaven help him, already did.

Every second in this house fissured her with more apprehension. Nothing appeared amiss. Nothing was amiss.

For the first two days, she had kept to her chamber and been delivered all her meals on a Hollyvale-crested silver tray. The doctor came both mornings. Mr. Oswald sat with her during the day, denying any interest in shooting and billiards with the other male guests.

Instead, he read aloud Prisoner of Chillon, though more often than not he laid the book down to make charming remarks or deep revelations about her character.

She was too ill at ease to find witty responses to any of them.

She only smiled, without luster, and nodded him back to the poem.

Now, on the afternoon of the third day, she sat in the drawing room in the evening candlelight, the floral smell of beeswax and cherry brandy heavy on the air.

Mr. Oswald and another gentleman played baccarat at a round card table in the corner of the room, while Eleanor Oswald entertained three listening girls and two eager gentlemen with an impressive account of Buenos Aires.

The others occupied chairs and chaise lounges, while a disinterested couple played a melancholy duet on the pianoforte. The tune sucked her in, its pull suffocating. Why was she here?

She should have allowed Simon to take her to the hunting lodge, where at least she would have been comforted by the familiar affections of kind Mrs. Fancourt.

Better yet, she should be home. Did she imagine running from her fears of the stranger would make it go away? How did she ever expect to uncover the truth if she did not face him?

She owed it to Papa to be brave.

She owed it to herself.

Hurt burned through her, as the song dipped lower with rippling, dramatic notes. The reality that Simon had left her here—alone—without so much as appearing in three days to see how she fared, brought more distress than her throbbing arm.

She had asked servants about him more than a hundred times a day.

She had watched the drive from her chamber window.

Did she mean so little to him? Or did he fathom his absence a strange sort of protection—that she would be in little danger if he was not close?

"Have you so little interest in travel, Miss Whitmore?" Eleanor swept next to Georgina on the chaise lounge, the glint in her eyes more condescending than curious.

"Forgive me." Georgina cradled her linen sling closer. "I fear I am not myself these past days."

"A consequence my brother afflicts on all feminine guests."

"I did not mean—"

"Just look at them." Eleanor leaned close enough that her whisper was only loud enough for Georgina's ear. "Every lady in the room—I daresay, even Miss Crayford there at the pianoforte, who is betrothed to the gentleman playing next to her—keeps stealing glances at my seducing brother."

"You misjudge me greatly, Miss Oswald."

"No, you misjudge him." Eleanor's features hardened. "He has a cunning way of entrapping his prey before they even know they have been snared."

"You speak very severely of your own brother."

"As he does of me."

Georgina glanced at Mr. Oswald across the room, as he grinned at his card opponent with smug assurance. "Are you so very ill with each other?"

"Yes." Ice chilled the words. "He ruined my life."

Before Georgina could respond, the drawing room door opened and Simon entered.

A hush fell over the room as quickly as her heart tripped.

He met her eyes and immediate relief seemed to relax his features, as if seeing her well and unharmed reassured him. He could have been relieved three days past.

He would have been if he had cared.

But he didn't. She knew that well enough by now.

"Well, this is a surprise." When no one else in the room acknowledged his presence, Miss Eleanor stood with exaggerated enthusiasm. "Mr. Fancourt, we are glad you could join us, though I fear you missed both dinner and the most interesting tales of my journey abroad."

He settled into a chair near the hearth, and though his body and expression were calm, Georgina noted the tension of his tight fingers around the chair arm.

"But I daresay, enough of such droll pleasures. I demand everyone stop what they are doing at once." She swept a hand to the pianoforte. "Miss Crayford, a country dance medley. We must move the furniture immediately and dance."

Someone called for the servants, the chairs and lounges were all scooted to the edge of the walls, and as soon as every guest besides Georgina had been urged into the circle, Miss Crayford broke into a lively rendition of "Earl Breadalbain's Reel."

From her seat along the wall, in the shadows, Georgina tried not to watch him. They paired in threes, took each other's hands, then Simon ducked under two upheld arms. He promenaded with Miss Oswald around the room.

Twice, Georgina almost rose and left.

She needed to leave this room, this house.

Now.

But she remained, like a moth singeing her wings, until the medley was over and Simon glanced at her again. He acted as if there was something he needed to say. Or did she only wish it were so?

"As scandalous as it is, I suggest we do a waltz." With a wickedly daring grin, Mr. Oswald motioned to the pianist. "Shall we be so nefarious, Miss Crayford?"

She giggled and blushed and nodded, and everyone else murmured enthusiastic agreement.

But before Mr. Oswald could take one step in Georgina's direction, Simon was already next to her, pulling her up.

"My arm—"

"I will be gentle." He guided her hand to his shoulder, slipped his own to the small of her back, pulled her next to him and swayed her to the rhythmic beat of the music. Had he ever danced with her before?

They had been so young when he left. Too young for balls and house parties.

He would not have danced with her then, even if he could have, she imagined. Why did he dance with her now?

She tried to force her limbs to remain rigid. She urged her face to show no signs, though everything within her wanted to relax against him and melt into the glory of being this close to him. She smelled oil paints on his clothes. She smelled the summer air and horses and grass and leather carriage reins—

"I found the driver."

The sobriety of his words splashed her, like cold water in her face, drowning away the imagined scents. How ridiculous she was. How pathetic. Shouldn't she have known he only wished to tell her the news? Not dance with her?

"I found him in a village tavern, drinking away the last of his payment."

"Payment?"

"For almost seeing us dead."

Coldness raced up her spine. "What was your course of action upon discovering him?"

"Suffice it to say he gave me no answers. Despite strong persuasion." Simon danced her farther from the others, though his voice remained low. "He is jailed for now, but with little evidence, I suspect he will be released. He claims the reins got away from him."

"I see." She lowered her gaze, focused on her slippers moving in step to his boots. A moment more and this would be over. She would return to her town house, as she should have done before, and be finished with any entanglement to Simon Fancourt—

"I wish it had been me." His voice caught.

Startled, she glanced up at his face, certain she had imagined the hitch of emotion in his words.

But his eyes echoed the sentiment, for they glistened in the candlelight with the most surprising tears she had ever witnessed in her life. With the next blink, they were gone. "I wish my arms had been broken instead."

"Do not say such a thing."

"I will put an end to this."

"Simon—"

"I will stop such a beast, and you will never hurt at my hand again." He seemed to mean more than the carriage accident. He seemed to mean twelve years ago and the goodbye he never said and the promise he broke.

She pulled herself away, wincing at the pain beneath her sling. She felt she should say something, anything, to acknowledge the passion he'd just exhibited.

But the only thing she could think to do was escape.

She fled without saying a word.

Someday, he would paint tonight.

Simon had departed the suffocating drawing room not long after Miss Whitmore and wandered back out to the Hollyvale porch. Blackness filled his view, save for the distant lantern lights from the stables and the faint stars overhead.

They were nothing like the stars back home.

Somehow, from the harvest fields, with mountains towering on either side of him, they glistened brighter and seemed so bountiful he could not have counted them if he tried.

But he had never wanted to paint such a sky. In all those years, he had never painted the cabin, or the forest in winter, or the children barefoot at play.

He had never painted Ruth.

He told himself it was because paints were harder to come by. But had he mentioned one word of it to Blayney, the man would have returned from another one of his trading ventures with a tin paint box of oils in tow.

Why had Simon never captured the life he loved so much? Why had his paintbrushes only stroked his world here in England? Did he paint of discontent? Had he been too happy for such nonsense in America?

He did not understand himself.

Just that tonight…

He swallowed, rubbed his face. He should not think this way. He should not allow his mind—his foolish, betraying mind—to take him back to dancing in a stuffy drawing room surrounded by people who annoyed him. Everything bothered him. The grating music. The gaudy furniture. The giggling, matrimonial-minded ladies.

Everything but Miss Whitmore.

In a world where everything seemed threatening, she was earnest, kind, light, beautiful, true. She was the one thing he wanted to paint. When everything was over, when he was back in the forest and fields of home, when he knew he would never see her again.

When he knew he was in no danger of making a mistake.

"You know, of course, what it is that makes a man wander to such dark isolation, do you not?"

Simon turned to the voice, removing his hands from his pockets.

Miss Oswald's shadowy silhouette emerged from the entrance door, and she leaned back against one of the white porch pillars, her poise relaxed and confident. "It means, in his subtle attempt to prove he wishes to be alone, he most adamantly does not."

"You should go in."

"Do you want me to?"

He turned for the door—

Her hand, cool and gloveless, snatched his own. "Your eyes have followed me all evening, Mr. Fancourt. Do not be so pious as to deny your temptation opportunity."

"Very well." He faced her, but untangled his hand. "I admit to my scrutiny of you."

"You are not very artful. It is your duty to keep me in suspense."

"I could not help wondering at your involvement with Patrick Brownlow."

Her body flinched, as if he had stung her cheek with a blow. "Who told you?"

"I found one of your letters."

"Where?"

"His town house."

"Oh. I see." She turned her back to him, stepped away, though a quiet laugh came trilling out. "You could have no possible way of knowing how amusing that is to me. After everything that has been done to prevent and conceal such a match, that one of those old letters should resurface is inconceivable."

"His place was in ramshackle."

"I have read the columns, Mr. Fancourt."

"Someone wanted him—"

"He is gone. It little matters what anyone wants or wanted, because we seldom gain what we desire." She faced him again, eyes luminous in the dark. "He is gone," she breathed again. "We are not."

"I overheard your brother speaking to him in the corridor. The day of the picnic."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"They were—"

The entrance door crashed open. "Eleanor?" With light streaming in from behind him, Mr. Oswald stepped to the porch. His eyes slipped from Simon, to Miss Oswald, then back to Simon again. "I presume you are not compromising my innocent sister, Mr. Fancourt."

"We were only discussing her relationship with Patrick Brownlow."

Miss Oswald gasped, while her brother only leaned against the doorframe, arms folding over his chest. He grinned. "Pray, who is that?"