A second blast rang out. Pain shot through his shoulder. A red haze obscured his vision. The pain, combined with the horse’s crazed movement, unseated him.
He fell.
The air was pushed from his lungs. He’d fallen on his other arm and he felt another flare of pain. Tallon’s dark form bolted, galloping through the undergrowth in a wild, chaotic fury of jangling reins and breaking branches.
For a moment, after the crashing thunder of the horses’ hooves, it seemed that they all briefly waited in sudden, eerie silence.
Ren pulled himself to a seated position. His whip had fallen. He grabbed it. The pain invoked by the movement made his senses swim into that red haze so that he feared he would swoon.
A man ran forward, laughing. ‘What yer gonna do with that?’ He slurred his words together, aiming his foot at Ren and kicking so that he fell forward again.
More desperate now, Ren struggled up. This time, he swung the whip, catching the man with a glancing blow. It nipped his face, a dark line of blood slicing across his cheek.
The man swore. Ren swung again, hitting him more squarely. This time the man staggered. Then the third figure emerged. The light flickered, making the men and trees tall undulating shadows. They wore masks so that he could not see their faces.
‘You want money? Here!’ Ren pulled out his purse with the hand not clutching at the whip, throwing it to the men.
One of the figures bent down. He opened it, pulling out the coins. He rubbed them between his thumb and forefinger. The gold shone dully.
‘We still gotta kill him,’ one said.
‘Just take his gold and run. Why stick our necks out?’
‘We’ll get more. He said. A lot more.’
‘Or the hangman’s noose. Gold’s not much good to a dead man.’
Taking advantage of their abstraction, Ren again swung the whip. The lash struck the lantern. It rocked, its beam making a yellow arch. He swung again. The whip snapped. The lantern clattered. Briefly, light flared before flickering out in the damp soil.
After that flash of light, the woods seemed all the darker. Ren heard their curses. Another shot rang out. It struck a tree with a splintering of wood.
He heard the movement of the pistol being reloaded, the click of metal.
It was now or never. Doubled over in pain, Ren scrambled in a half-run, half-crawl. He pushed through bushes and undergrowth, determined only to put as much distance between himself and these men as possible. Twigs and leaves scratched at his face. He heard another shot. It came close. He heard the whistle of air as it passed his ear.
Mindless of the pain, he made a final effort before tumbling into the low ditch. He flattened himself to the ground. He smelled dirt. He felt its grit. He heard the wood’s silence and the hard, rhythmic thump of his heart. Even with his eyes closed he saw the sparkle of a thousand lights.
When he next lifted his head, the silence remained profound and absolute as though even the woodland creatures were themselves hushed. Had the men given up the chase? Had they gone away, satisfied with their fistful of gold?
He felt his eyelids stretch as he looked about, as though by making his eyes wider he could see better. His gaze darted across the shadowy woodland shapes. A branch moved. He startled. His hand tightened reflexively on the whip. He dared not breathe.
He wondered if they were even yet moving stealthily, stepping quietly, encircling him. He lay very still and it seemed that this absence of movement was not a choice but a necessity. His limbs felt solidified, numb and heavy as rocks. His heart slowed, his eyes lids closed and the chill grew, deadening the pain.
He didn’t know how long he lay semi-conscious, but suddenly, almost as if told by an external source, he knew he must move.
He must move or die.
With gritted teeth, he forced himself on to his hands and knees. He put his hand on to a tree stump. Strangely, his palm slid off it as though wet. He sat back on his heels, staring at the dark liquid dripping down his palm and forearm with disbelieving surprise. He touched his shoulder. He felt a warm wetness. His jacket was sodden.
Blood.
The bullet must have struck his shoulder. Odd that it hurt less than his other arm. He thought this in an almost detached manner, as though with academic curiosity. His thoughts seemed slow and pedestrian like the treacle Mrs Bridges used to give them.
He shivered. He felt very cold, but was also aware of the beads of perspiration on his forehead and under his armpits. Gripping on to the stump, he struggled to stand. The trees, the silver crescent moon and stars swayed.
He whistled for Tallon, but he was long gone. The woods remained heavily quiet.
As the shock lessened, the pain increased. It winded him, but also seemed to bring with it new clarity and determination. He’d walk to Allington. It was closer than Graham Hill—two miles at most. He could walk two miles.
Except walking was not easy. His wound bled. He tried to stem the flow, but this made the other arm hurt, an excruciating pain worse than the bullet.
Every movement jarred. He clenched his teeth, forcing himself to move forward, focusing on each step, left, right, left, right, as a soldier might march. The beads of sweat became huge, rolling down his forehead, stinging his eyes.
At last he exited the woods. Stepping into the clearing, he felt a peculiar mix of fear and relief. Help was more accessible here. He was on the road. Someone might pass, a farmer or late-night reveller. Yet he also felt vulnerable and exposed. Again, he felt his gaze dart from side to side, what ifs circling in his mind.
A few trees lined the road. They cast dim, eerie shadows in the faint light of the crescent moon. It seemed odd that the crescent moon remained so unchanged. But then the moon never changed. It had seen war and death and didn’t change.
On occasion, he heard the rustling scurry of a woodland creature. He remembered how he had liked to paint foxes and squirrels.
It seemed, he thought, that if he died here tonight, he might regret not painting. He would also regret that he had not told Beth that he loved her. She might not love him, but he loved her. He would have liked her to know that.
His arm was bleeding less now. It was just a scratch—the merest trifle. The searing pain from the other arm was worse. It made him long to lie down on the road, to close his eyes, to sleep. The sweat made his hair stick in clammy strands to his forehead and neck. But still so cold. So cold he was shaking. Odd to be sweating while his teeth chattered. Their movement made the road, the trees, the bushes, the bright eyes of the animals, the crescent moon and the stars blur. It was as though he walked in a dream. Sometimes he remembered the dark figures of his attackers. At other times, he wondered how he had got hurt. Once, he decided that he had fought with Edmund and that Nanny would be cross. Nanny did not approve of fisticuffs.
Perhaps he should rest. He was so very tired—except he had something important to do. He frowned, trying to remember what he needed to do and where he was going. The chattering of his own teeth was so loud. Surely the whole world should hear it.
Allington.
Yes, that was it. He needed to get to Allington. He needed to get to Allington because he needed to see Beth. He needed to tell Beth that he loved her. He needed her to know that and also that he hadn’t meant any of those harsh things. Suddenly he saw her clearly, almost as clearly as the trees and shrubs and the moon.
At last, the dim outline of the stable at Allington loomed from the shadows. For a moment he wondered if it was real. Then he found the rail that Beth’s father had constructed. He held it, glad of the firm wood under his hand.
Turning, he saw the house. It looked huge and dark, with lights visible only in the two uppermost windows. The thought of traversing the courtyard seemed suddenly impossible. Perhaps Jamie would be in the stable. Jamie was always in the small office, reading or recording measurements or some s
uch.
Ren stepped forward, meaning to go to the stable, but his legs buckled. Instinctively, he extended his arms to break his fall, but collapsed as pain twisted through his arm, searing and excruciating.
He lay quite still, squeezing his eyes shut. The pain eased a little. His body felt limp, spent. The grass and moss was damp but not unpleasant. He could stay here and rest—just for a little while. The air smelled of spring. He liked spring.
To one side, just over the stable’s shadowy shape, he saw the crescent moon. And then his eyes closed and blackness descended.
* * *
Beth and Allie did not speak as the carriage took the rutted country road to Allington. The journey was short but unpleasant. Beth still hated the rolling movement as they were pulled through space she could not see or feel. She hated the uneasiness in her stomach and the aching bruised feeling in her spine and bottom.
Allie did not talk or attempt to distract her as she had done on the trip to London. Instead, the silence felt heavy with disapproval.
Her maid was equally annoyed that there had been no happy reconciliation at Rosefield Cottage, nor had Beth determined to chase Ren to London, but instead had ordered their immediate departure for Allington.
‘It is entirely possible that he might return to talk this out some more and he can hardly do that if you keep on haring off like a frightened rabbit,’ Allie said.
‘I think we will only hurt each other more if we talk. Besides, the decision is made. It is the right decision. Love is about wanting what is best for the other person and not the pursuit of one’s own needs.’
Allie had merely sniffed, again making the packing of Beth’s few items a noisy affair.
At last the carriage slowed, and took a sharp turn. Beth straightened, recognising the twist and pressing her fingers against the cool glass pane. ‘Are we there?’
‘Indeed, although it’s dark as coal dust. They have no lanterns lit. They must not have got our message about arriving earlier than was scheduled.’
The carriage rattled to a stop.
‘I hope someone hears us,’ Allie added. ‘Mr Munson is deaf as a post and Mr Jamie is like as not conducting some experiment.’
‘Then he might be in the stable,’ Beth said.
‘That’s dark, too. Not to worry. I am certain if Arnold hammers hard enough on the back door, someone will hear us eventually. This is what happens when one is unpredictable in one’s travel plans.’
Allie finished this last sentence with another sniff of disapproval and Beth heard the rustle of her clothes as she leaned forward to open the door so that the cool night air spilled inwards.
‘You stay there, my lady. We don’t want you walking about in the dark. Arnold and I will get things lit and the house woke up.’
‘Thank you,’ Beth said with a wry grin. Light or lack thereof made little difference to her and her legs and arms were numb with travel.
Therefore, within moments of Allie’s departure she clambered out, determined to stretch her legs and roll her shoulders to work out the kinks which knotted her back and made her head ache.
It was the smell that caught her attention. She gasped as memory hit her, quick and painful. The smell had an earthiness, a sharp mineral tang, half-sweet and half-pungent. She remembered that smell. It had been everywhere, heavy and sickening, the day they’d brought her mother home.
Blood.
‘My lady, I’ve sent Arnold to hammer on the back.’
‘Shhh,’ Beth replied as though silence would help her better follow the scent. ‘Do you see anything? Anyone?’
‘What? No, it is still very dark. You should wait—’
‘Get a lantern and look. Someone is hurt. And where is my cane?’
‘Here, my lady,’ Allie said, getting it from the interior of the carriage.
‘Go for a lantern and get Arnold as well.’
As Allie departed, Beth stepped forward. Fear clutched her heart. What if Jamie had been injured?
‘Hallo?’ she called. ‘Jamie?’
She heard a groan. She stepped towards the sound. Her cane struck something or someone. She heard a second muffled cry. Letting her cane fall, she dropped to the ground. Kneeling, she felt a man’s jacket. It was a fine cloth, not the fabric of a labourer.
‘Jamie?’
Her hands urgently explored. She felt a face. She recognised the contours, the firm chin and cheeks.
It was not Jamie.
Fear, pain and panicked bewilderment squeezed her gut as her hands frantically roamed over the cloth of his shirt to find his injury.
‘Allie! Arnold! Help!’ she shouted.
Her hands touched his chest, his face, and then his shoulders where she felt the warm, wet stickiness of blood.
‘Here, my lady. What is it?’ Allie’s quick footsteps came up behind her, accompanied by the clank of the lantern.
‘It’s Ren. We need to get him indoors and get a doctor. Now!’
‘I’ll—I’ll tell Arnold.’
‘Beth.’ Ren’s voice was weak and husky.
She leaned over him. ‘Ren, we will look after you. We’ll get you inside. You’re going to be fine, I promise.’
‘You’re real?’
‘Yes! Yes!’
‘I... Tell...’ He started to speak, but his words dwindled into a rasp of breath, followed by a gasping, whistling exhalation.
* * *
The next few days were a blur. The doctor came. He smelled of medicine and tinctures. He removed the bullet and stitched up the wound while Allie held up a light. Then, when Allie left to retch, Beth took over the job. She stood, as directed, her arm raised as she listened to Ren’s muted groans and the rasp of needle through skin.
The arm was not broken, but rather the shoulder socket and blade were out of alignment and not moving properly. The doctor was able to shift both back into place. The wound would heal, provided Ren was able to fight the infection.
‘It appears,’ he explained, in his low, guttural tones, ‘that an infection entered the wound with the bullet. For this reason, he has a temperature and there is considerable inflammation. We will need to keep him cool and the wound cleansed. He has also lost considerable blood. The next few days are critical.’
Critical. The word sounded like a death warrant. Beth wrapped her arms tightly about herself, feeling as though she might split into a thousand shards.
* * *
Morning brought Jamie’s return. He had been conducting a science experiment which apparently could only be done at night. He came into the sick room. He smelled slightly of manure which mixed unpleasantly with the mustard plaster that the doctor had ordered.
‘But what happened?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know. He was attacked. He hasn’t been conscious,’ Beth said.
‘But we’ve never had anyone attacked at Allington.’
Beth almost smiled. Jamie sounded so personally offended, she thought, with the tiny part of her brain which still functioned. Odd the way this minute portion of her mind still assimilated unimportant details while the rest of her was paralysed in awful, soul-destroying agony.
‘His purse had been taken,’ she said.
‘That is evidence.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘A random robbery, I suppose.’
Jamie grunted, but she had the sense that he disagreed. She could ask, she supposed, but it seemed too hard to structure her sentences.
‘Let me know if he wakes up.’
She nodded.
‘Can I do anything?’ he added more gently.
‘No.’
‘Look after yourself.’
* * *
For long hours, Beth sat beside Ren. She heard his agitated movement, punctuated by groans as his pain and restlessness increased. His temperature rose. Even befor
e she touched his forehead she could feel the heat from it, radiating like a brick hot from the fire.
Sometimes he would toss. At moments he shouted, addressing someone or something not in the room. Allie or Mrs Ross, the housekeeper, would come in. They would change his linens, give him water or feed him small portions of soup.
Unable to help with this, Beth cooled him with wet cloths. She’d touch his forehead with the flannel. It seemed that this soothed him and, for a moment, secured him some peace.
At times Beth rested fitfully, falling asleep in the chair only to jerk awake. Often those first moments of consciousness brought with them panicked fear when she thought she could not hear his breathing and reached desperately for his arm, needing to feel concrete evidence of life.
When the doctor or Allie sent her to bed, she lay, unable to sleep, in the small antechamber connected to the bedchamber. It seemed that everything and everyone waited. Even the tick of the clock sounded as though it were merely ticking down long seconds, waiting.
Now that she knew that she might lose him, Ren’s existence felt as vital to her as her own beating heart. He needed to be in the world. She needed him to be in the world. Even if they could not be husband and wife, she needed him to be in the world.
At times, Jamie would come in. He would stand, tall and shuffling behind her, uncomfortable in a sick room.
‘Has he said anything?’ he’d usually ask.
‘Nothing sensible,’ she’d say.
* * *
The doctor came daily and changed the dressing. Beth wanted to ask him if Ren would be fine, but couldn’t find the words. Besides, she knew the answer: maybe.
Maybe. She hated maybe. It kept her suspended in this no-man’s land between despair and hope. It filled her mind with what ifs. What if he died...? What if...? What if...? What if...?
Sometime during the third night, she woke with a start, aware of a peculiar stillness. She could not hear Ren’s harsh breathing, or the thrashing of feet and arms. She stumbled forward, an urgent, uncoordinated movement of limbs. Something crashed, shattering.
‘Allie!’ she shouted. ‘Mrs Ross!’
Her Convenient Husband's Return Page 19