Chapter Thirteen

‘W hat on earth has happened, Charles?'

Samuel followed Smithson into the small parlour, where the broad frame of his friend loomed large, wringing his hands and pacing tirelessly. His sister, meanwhile, had been laid out on the sofa, her eyes closed as Maddie sat beside her, dabbing her forehead with a cool cloth. Hope, who'd followed behind him, immediately joined Maddie at Miss Gordon's side, tucking the loose tendrils of her dark hair behind her ears as she bent down to examine the patient. Realising he was staring at her, Samuel tore his gaze away and focused again on Charles, trying to force himself to focus on the matter at hand. Trying not to dwell on the memory of her lips pressed against his, of the feeling of her in his arms. Of how those heady, intoxicating moments had brought his guilt rushing to the fore. He'd been so close to telling her, so close to explaining everything...

‘The physician has been sent for, sir,' Smithson informed him, answering when it was clear, after a long moment, that Charles would not.

Samuel nodded. ‘Thank you, Smithson. Charles,' he said gently, trying again. ‘Do you know what happened? Do you know what ails her?'

Charles shook his head, his face growing paler by the moment. ‘She was fine until after the interval,' he replied. ‘Then she began to behave in the most odd manner, calling out the strangest things, then laughing so much that she did not seem able to stop. People were staring at her like she was mad.' His friend paused, clearly collecting himself. ‘I decided we ought to leave and got her back into the carriage. She fell asleep on the ride home and I have not been able to rouse her since. I do not know what the matter is with her, Sammy.'

Samuel glanced down at Miss Gordon. ‘Is she feverish?' he asked Maddie.

‘No, sir,' the maid answered.

‘And she was absolutely fine all day, before you went out?' he asked Charles.

His friend nodded. ‘She was her usual self, Sammy, warts and all.'

Samuel shook his head. ‘Then I am at a loss. We will have to hope that the physician can offer further insight.'

‘If he comes tonight,' Charles replied fretfully, glancing towards the window, which had been shuttered against the darkness outside. ‘It is rather late, after all. What can we do in the meantime?'

‘Keep her comfortable,' Samuel replied, staring glumly at Miss Gordon, who remained unresponsive. ‘And keep watch over her, in case there is any change in her condition.'

His eyes shifted once again from the patient to Hope, who seemed to be observing Miss Gordon closely. He watched as she leaned forward, as though listening for something. Then, to his surprise, she reached over, lifting Miss Gordon's eyelids to open her eyes one at a time, frowning at whatever it was she saw.

‘What is it, Miss Swynford?' Samuel asked, stepping towards her.

Gingerly, Hope stood up, turning to face him. Her expression, he noted, remained grave. ‘I believe I might know what is wrong with Miss Gordon,' she replied, flashing Charles a wary look. ‘If I may speak plainly, Sir Samuel.'

Samuel winced at her use of that blasted title. How he wished he could banish it for good! How he wished he could tell her the truth, here and now. But of course he could not—not in front of Charles and his servants. Not when Miss Gordon was plainly so unwell...

He nodded briskly, pushing his swirling thoughts aside. ‘Of course. You may always speak plainly to me, Hope,' he replied, venturing now to use her first name in company and hoping she would do the same. In truth, right now, he was not sure how many more ‘Sir Samuels' he could stomach.

‘I believe Miss Gordon is suffering the effects of having taken laudanum,' Hope replied quietly. Those emerald eyes of hers met his again for the briefest moment before she turned to address Charles. ‘Mr Gordon, I wonder if you can confirm whether your sister has been taking this, perhaps on the advice of your family's physician?'

Something about Hope's tone told Samuel that she suspected Charles was well aware of what was going on.

‘No, well, indeed, she may have taken a tincture once or twice...' Charles prevaricated.

‘This is important, Charles,' Samuel urged him. ‘We cannot help your sister if we do not know what is amiss.'

Charles's eyes seemed to widen like saucers. ‘For headaches,' he said after a moment. ‘Yes—I remember now. She took laudanum on our doctor's orders, for headaches.'

‘Took?' Hope repeated. ‘Forgive me, sir, but it seems to me that your sister continues to take laudanum, presumably for the headaches which, as I'm sure you've also observed, she continues to suffer.' Samuel watched as carefully Hope sat down at Miss Gordon's side once more. ‘Her pupils are like pin pricks,' she explained, briefly opening one of the lady's eyes again. ‘Her breathing is shallow. And the behaviour you described at the theatre sounds very much like the sort of delirium which laudanum is known to induce. In short, sir, if you check your sister's reticule I believe you will find a bottle of what has poisoned her within it.'

‘Poison?' Charles said, aghast.

‘Yes—poison,' Hope replied emphatically. ‘Laudanum relieves suffering but if she has taken too much then...surely, sir, I don't have to explain to you how dangerous that may be.'

Samuel's mouth fell open at the bluntness of her warning. ‘What can be done for her, Hope?' he asked.

‘She must be watched over, as you suggested,' Hope replied. ‘In my experience, we need to keep her propped up, as she is right now on the sofa. It is better for her breathing and better if...well, if she expels anything. And we should try to rouse her, if we can. Beyond that, we can only await the physician's advice.'

Samuel nodded dumbly, her words still sinking in. Knowing, confident words spoken, as she'd just admitted, from experience. Despite the severity of the situation, Samuel found himself wondering about the nature of those experiences, about what Hope might have faced in her past which had taught her how to handle something as dire and life-threatening as this. He wondered too if it was this very sort of experience that caused Hope to guard the story of her past so closely.

Now, however, was not the time to ask her questions such as that. Giving himself a mental shake, Samuel sprang once again into action.

‘You heard Hope,' he said, addressing the room. ‘Let us pray that the physician's journey here is swift and without delay. In the meantime, Miss Gordon shall not be left alone for a moment.'

Groggily, Hope opened her eyes, grimacing at the aching she felt in her neck and limbs after being curled up on a chair for goodness knew how long. She looked towards the window, relieved to see daylight hinting at the edges of the shutters, which were still closed to the world outside. It had been an endless night. The physician, it had transpired, had not been at home, having been summoned to an emergency elsewhere, leaving Hope and the others to care for Miss Gordon alone and without guidance.

Having checked his sister's reticule and found a small bottle of laudanum tucked within it, Mr Gordon had at last resigned himself to Hope's diagnosis and placed himself at Miss Gordon's side, insisting that he would watch over her first. They had each taken a turn while the others slept, and now, as she pulled herself upright, she saw Samuel was still at his post, his gaze intent upon the patient. For a moment she simply looked at him, taking in every detail from his dishevelled sand-coloured hair to his rumpled white shirt, long bereft of either a coat or cravat.

Memories of those heated moments in the library came rushing to the fore, her fingers tingling with awareness as though her skin itself could recall the feeling of the fine fabric of his clothes, of the outline of the muscles which hinted at their presence beneath them, of the warm softness of his hair. She felt her face grow hot as her mind lingered on how she had responded to his embrace, how she had kissed him back with reckless abandon. It had been an entirely new, entirely terrifying and entirely thrilling experience—to be held like that, to be touched like that. To be kissed like that.

The abruptness with which he'd ended the embrace had astonished her, but not as much as the tortured, guilt-ridden look on his face as he'd begun to speak of things he ought to say, of not being what she thought he was.

What on earth had he meant by that? That question, and all its possible answers, had circled around her mind throughout the long night. She'd replayed his words over and over, picking through them, searching for clues. He'd told her that he shouldn't have kissed her—why was that? Was he, in fact, a married man? Or was he betrothed, with a fiancée tucked away somewhere? Her face heated again as she recalled the enthusiasm she'd shown for his advances—an enthusiasm which was as mortifying as it was curious, especially if the kiss, for him, had been a grave transgression. An act of infidelity, and something to be regretted.

Of course, she reminded herself, if he had kissed her under false pretences, then he wasn't the only one. Last night the master of Hayton Hall had believed himself to be kissing a runaway heiress, not the penniless daughter of an outlaw.

Samuel had promised that they would talk soon, and certainly they both had much to say. Before that kiss had sent her thoughts and her wits scattering, she'd blurted out her intention to leave—an intention which now seemed more vital than ever. After last night, it was abundantly clear that her feelings for the master of Hayton Hall had grown beyond even her wildest imaginings, and it seemed from his actions that there was some attraction on his part too. An attraction, she reminded herself, which he felt towards Hope Swynford and not Hope Sloane. Extricating herself from this situation, and removing herself and her deceit from his life, was now essential. In that respect, whatever he'd been on the cusp of confessing to her last night surely could not matter.

But, God help her, she ached to know what it was...

‘Good morning.'

Hope blinked, her whirring thoughts interrupted as she realised Samuel was looking at her.

‘Did you sleep all right?' he asked, offering her a weary smile.

‘Not too badly, considering.'

‘In hindsight, it perhaps would have been best if you'd retired upstairs,' he mused. ‘You are still recovering. It cannot have been good for your ankle, curling up like a cat in that chair.'

‘I'm fine,' she assured him, resisting the urge to rub her throbbing foot. ‘How is Miss Gordon?' She looked around. ‘And where is Mr Gordon?'

‘Charles is outside, smoking his pipe—as he does whenever he is vexed.' He glanced back at the patient. ‘And Miss Gordon seems to be improving. Her breathing is steadier and she has stirred several times in the past hour. Maddie has just taken away the water and cloths as we agreed they're no longer needed.'

Hope smiled. ‘You called her Maddie, not Madeleine,' she observed.

Samuel let out a small chuckle. ‘I did. A perceptive and considerate lady once suggested to me that I ought to pay better attention to my servants' wishes, especially when they're in no position to challenge me.'

Hope inclined her head, acknowledging the compliment. ‘Poor Maddie must get some rest too,' she reminded him. ‘If she has been attending to Miss Gordon all night.'

Samuel nodded. ‘I've told Smithson to give her the day off. I've also asked Smithson to arrange for some breakfast to be brought. I thought that if we can wake Miss Gordon, we may be able to get her to eat or drink something. And I do not know about you, but I am famished.'

Hope's stomach growled in agreement, and she remembered that they had never eaten the bread and meat which had been laid out in the library. Events, and passionate embraces, had intervened.

‘Has there been any further word from the physician?' she asked, ignoring the heat which had crept into her cheeks once more.

‘A message was left for him last night,' Samuel replied. ‘I expect he will come today.'

‘Good. Hopefully, he will confirm that Miss Gordon will recover well.'

‘Hmm.' Samuel's gaze drifted back to the patient and gently he shook his head. ‘It's a terrible business,' he said in a hushed voice. ‘She could have died last night.'

‘Laudanum is a terrible business,' Hope responded grimly.

‘You sound as though you speak from experience.'

Those grey-blue eyes held hers once again. Hope could hear the tentative note in his voice, as though he had not been sure if he should broach the subject. But after last night, after seeing how she'd recognised what was wrong with Miss Gordon and taken charge of the situation, she knew he could hardly avoid talking to her about it. She knew too that she could not lie to him; she had offered too vivid a glimpse of the real Hope's life to do that. Only the truth, or at least a version of it, would do now.

‘My mother,' she said at last, as evenly as she could manage. ‘She began taking it for an ailment, to help with the pain. In doing so, she found that it could take away not just her physical pain but every other pain she felt too, and I think she rather liked the oblivion it offered her. But the rub with laudanum is that the more you take it, the more you need to take to achieve the desired effect. And the higher the dose, the greater the risk. My mother found this out to her great cost. She died a number of years ago, alone on her bed, an empty bottle of her beloved poison by her side.'

‘I am so sorry, Hope. That must have been very hard to bear.'

Hope pressed her lips together, hoping Samuel could not sense how hard she was fighting to hold back her tears. ‘I spent many nights watching over her, just as we had to do with Miss Gordon. And many days pleading with her to stop taking it. But that need she had to obliterate everything was just too strong.'

‘Was there no one who could help? What about your father?'

‘My father was the reason for much of her pain,' she replied bitterly, the words slipping out before she could prevent them. She should not have told him that. The last person she should be speaking to Samuel about was her father.

Samuel frowned, and she could see he was trying to make sense of her words. ‘You do not have to tell me anything more, Hope,' he said in the end. ‘Not if you do not wish to.'

But that was exactly the problem, Hope thought. She did want to tell him. She wanted to break down and weep and tell him everything—about her mother, her father, her true self. About the childhood spent on that bleak hillside in Lillybeck, about her escape from a forced marriage and a life of crime. About her time on the stage, about those colourful years which had exposed her to so much culture and creativity on the one hand, and wickedness and debauchery on the other. About how her freedom had been snatched from her a second time, and how fate and fortune had conspired to send her into those woods, running for her life. Running, as it had turned out, into Sir Samuel Liddell's life, and into his warm, caring embrace.

An embrace, and a life, which she now had to detach herself from—to protect his feelings and to protect her own. Confiding in him was utterly out of the question; the hole she'd dug herself into with her deceit was now far too deep for that.

‘I think that is quite enough misery for one morning,' she replied, forcing a smile as she rose carefully from her seat, ignoring how her sore limbs groaned in protest. ‘If you will excuse me, I think I'd like to freshen up before breakfast.'

‘Of course.'

Samuel too got to his feet. Hope could feel the heat of his gaze upon her as she walked towards the parlour door. She glanced down, feeling suddenly conscious of the state she was in. Her hair was hanging untidily about her shoulders and her clothes clung to her like a slickened second skin. She needed to wash, to breathe. To put some space between herself and Samuel and all that had been said and done. Perhaps then, she thought, her mind might not linger on the memory of his mouth pressed against hers quite so much.

‘Hope? Can we speak again later? After last night...well, there are some matters we need to discuss.' His voice sounded strained. ‘Some things I need to explain.'

She glanced back at him, just briefly. ‘Yes, of course.'

Hope hurried out of the room, reeling once more at the prospect of what it was he wanted to tell her, even while she told herself that whatever it was should make no difference to her now. The only thing that really mattered, she reminded herself, was leaving before any more harm could be done.