Rescued by the Duke: Delicate Hearts Book 2

by Catherine Mayfair

  Patrick walked up to stand beside her. “What is it?” he asked, his eyes wide with fear.

  “Three men came across His Grace last night,” the man said. “It’s a miracle how his voice was heard over the storm. He fell into some rocks and broke his leg…and…” He paused, as if not willing to say more.

  “What?” Abigail cried. “Tell me!”

  “Well, the doctor should really be the one telling you this,” the man said, his face red.

  Abigail could not take much more. “Tell me! I must know!”

  The man sighed. “The doctor fears his back is beyond fixing. I’m sorry, Your Grace.”

  “Oh, what have I done?” Abigail cried. With a sob, she lowered herself to the floor. Patrick wrapped his arms around her, glaring at the man who had delivered the news. It was then that she knew she had to be strong, so she pulled herself to a standing position once again. A Duchess did not simply sit on the floor! “Where is he? I must see him at once.”

  “He’s with Doctor Harding. I can take you there if you want.”

  “I know where it is,” Patrick said, still holding Abigail, for which she was glad. If not, she might have returned to sitting on the floor.

  The man nodded, whispering his apologies once again, and then turned and left. Abigail felt dizzy, horrified by what had happened.

  Patrick, however, squeezed her hand. “Come on, Miss Abigail,” he said. “Let’s go see what Doctor Harding has to say.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Abigail's heart pounded much like her feet along the boards in front of the shops, her pace quick as Patrick led her to the home of Doctor Harding. The rays of the sun increased as shopkeepers jingled keys in locks, stopping long enough to watch as she and the boy rushed past. The side street to where she was led was thick with mud after the night’s rain, making those who would have been out and about in carriages to wait until the sun had dried the streets once more.

  “Not far now,” Patrick said as he glanced over his shoulder at her.

  She lifted her skirts to keep herself from tripping over them as she walked faster in order to keep pace with the young boy. Had Patrick not been in the lead, she would have hurried just as quickly. She had never been more terrified in her life, the thought of Richard suffering crushing her. The fault was hers.

  At the end of the street, they turned left where a small cottage with horses and four men gathered outside of it sat behind a well-kept garden. The sympathy on the face of those men, as well as the bow of their heads, Abigail hoped were not omens of the fate Richard faced.

  Hurrying past the men, they entered the small home, and a spectacled man walked up to them. The numerous and deep lines on his face and his balding head placed him near sixty years of age.

  “Your Grace?” the man said with a nod of his head. “I am Doctor Harding.”

  “Doctor,” Abigail said, looking past the man in hopes of seeing Richard. “My husband, I understand that he had some sort of accident. Is he…?”

  “Alive?” the man asked. “Yes.”

  Abigail heaved a sigh of relief and tried to move past the doctor. “I must see him,” she insisted.

  However, the man caught her by the arm before she could get by. “Please, I must speak to you for a moment,” he said. He sounded weary but firm, and she stopped, though she wanted nothing more than to ignore the man. “I must prepare you for what has taken place.”

  This made her halt. “I only wish to see him,” she said, though she allowed him to walk her to a small table in the kitchen where he offered her a cup of tea. “No, thank you,” she murmured. Numbness filled her, and she was finding hearing difficult, for it was as if her head was filled with cotton wool.

  Patrick came to stand beside her, his small hand resting on her shoulder. In no time, the doctor had a teapot and two mismatched teacups on the table.

  “Now,” the doctor said as he poured her a cup of tea, “your husband took a fall last night during the storm.” He reaffirmed what she had heard from the man at the hotel. “Besides the numerous cuts and bruises, he has broken his right leg.”

  “This is all my fault,” Abigail said, wiping at her eyes.

  Doctor Harding sighed. “There is more, I’m afraid.”

  “More?” she asked. “What more could possibly be wrong?”

  “His spine has received quite a bit of damage,” the man said as he wiped sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief. “At this point, he has lost all feeling in his legs.”

  Abigail thought she might be ill, and if not for Patrick, she might have fallen to the floor.

  “I have some powders if you’d like,” the doctor said, standing.

  Shaking her head, Abigail replied, “No, I will be all right. I just need a moment, if you please.” She closed her eyes and slowed her breathing to allow her heart to calm. Richard was a vibrant man, one who enjoyed outings, including climbing over boulders as they had the day before. “He will walk again, will he not?”

  “I cannot in good faith make such a promise,” the doctor said. “However, there is a chance, albeit quite small. His leg has been set and the bone will heal, but until that has happened, we cannot be certain of anything. One thing of which we must be sure is that he begins to make an attempt to walk again as soon after his leg has healed as possible. A nurse would do wonders for this. In time, feeling may return to his legs. If that happens, his chances of walking will increase exponentially.

  “And if this does not happen, the returned feeling in his legs?”

  The doctor gave her a sad look. “Then the chances of him living with paralysis from the waist and below will be greater.”

  Abigail stared at the man. What he said broke her heart. “Has he been told?”

  “He has, but I’m not certain he understood. I have him heavily medicated to ease his pain.” He rose from his chair. “I am journeying to Rochester tonight to meet with a colleague. You are welcome to remain here if you would like. A nurse will be sent over tonight to help. I know you are here on your honeymoon, but His Grace cannot be moved, at least not right away. The next week is critical.

  “Thank you,” Abigail said, rising from her chair.

  “At his bedside is a brown bottle with medicine to help with his pain. One spoonful every eight hours. No more than that; it is quite potent.”

  Abigail nodded. “I understand.” They spoke for a few more minutes, the doctor showing her about the house and where key items were located, and then he picked up a large carpet bag and left the house. The men who had been waiting outside—Abigail assumed they had been a part of the search party and she would have to thank them at a later time—they spoke to the doctor before walking away.

  Abigail turned to Patrick, who looked up at her expectantly.

  “He will walk again, won’t he Miss Abigail?”

  “Yes,” she said, driving determination into her words. “Sit down here and I shall return in a moment. I need to speak with my husband alone.”

  Patrick gave her a subdued nod as he sat in the chair she had just vacated. Abigail walked to the room and stopped at the door, fighting back tears. Now was not the time for sadness and regret. She needed to be strong. So, taking a deep breath, she opened the door and walked into the bedroom.

  ***

  As she stepped into the room, Abigail had to cover her mouth to stifle the cry that wanted to escape. Sunlight highlighted Richard, who lay on the bed, two boards bound on either side of his right leg. His shirt had been removed, and his chest was covered in angry red welts. Though his eyes were closed, his face was scrunched in pain. Just the sight of him made her heart break, and she took small steps to move toward the bed so as not to disturb him if he was asleep. Somehow in the past day since she had last seen him, he seemed to have aged.

  Despite her attempts at stealth, however, he opened his eyes as she neared the bedside. His eyes were distant and his mouth firmly closed.

  “Richard?” Abigail whispered as she studied his face. “I a
m so sorry.” He blinked twice, though he did not respond otherwise. She pulled a chair beside the bed. “How are you feeling?”

  “The pain,” he croaked. “For hours I cried out, and no one came.”

  Abigail nodded and blinked back tears. She vowed he would never see her cry again, for his anguish had to be beyond measure as compared to hers.

  “All I could think of was you,” he said, his voice barely audible. His tongue flicked out and licked his lips. “I was terrified of you being alone, or even worse, that you would be forced to marry another.”

  Her hand reached for his, holding it for support. “I am here now,” she whispered, her eyes searching his. “I will never leave.”

  He grunted and then turned his head away. She thought he might have fallen back to sleep, but then he spoke again, this time without looking at her. “My foolishness for loving you, even facing death.” He let out a small laugh and winced. “Yet you did not come.”

  “I thought you wished to be left alone,” she replied. “Patrick, the young boy who watched our belongings, he went to search for you. When he had looked in every pub in the area, he was able to alert the right people so a search party could be gathered.

  Richard let out a breath and squeezed her hand. “The doctor told you I may not walk again, I assume.”

  “He told me there is a chance.”

  Richard snorted. “The old fool lies.” He coughed, his head still facing away from her. “Now, I am lame, a testament to my foolishness.”

  Reaching up, she brushed back a lock of his hair. “You are no fool.”

  “I am.” He turned back to face her. “But it is too late to argue such points. Will you bring me some water?”

  “Of course.” She rose and went to a large pitcher on a table near the window. She poured some of the liquid into a glass and returned to the bed. Helping him raise his head, she held the glass to his lips, and water trickled down his chin before she could stop it. When he pushed the glass away, she placed it on the nightstand. Gazing down at him, she could not stop the guilt that plagued her. This was all her fault, and it was time to take responsibility for what she had done.

  “I know that I am the cause of what has happened to you,” she said. “And I cannot ask for your forgiveness, for I do not deserve it.”

  His eyes closed as he drew his lips tight, yet he made no comment. He agreed with her, then. Good.

  “However, I will be here, at your side, as you heal.”

  He turned and glared at her. “Do not pity me, Abigail,” he said. “I do not need it, not now.”

  “It is not pity I give,” she replied. “It is because I care about you.”

  This brought on a snort. His disdain for her was great indeed. “There is a nurse coming tonight to see to me.”

  “Yes.”

  “I shall rest until then.”

  He turned away from her once again, and Abigail stood watching as his breathing became even and sleep overtook him. For some time, she stood there, horrified for his condition. Yet, though his recovery would be difficult, she knew in her heart he would walk again.

  “I am sorry,” she whispered as she placed a blanket folded from the foot of the bed over him. Then she turned and left the room.

  ***

  Abigail paced the sitting room of the small house belonging to Doctor Harding as she wrung her hands. The nurse had arrived an hour earlier to attend to Richard and had requested that Abigail remain outside. Even the sun had grown tired of waiting, having set not long after Mrs. Donovan had entered the bedroom and closed the door behind her. Now, darkness replaced the rays of hope that had held Abigail together.

  Patrick yawned and stretched in his place by the door. He had not left except to return to the hotel dining room with a note from Abigail to have food sent over to them. Abigail had eaten little, but Patrick had been more than happy to eat that which she did not.

  “Miss Abigail,” Patrick said, and she stopped her pacing to turn toward him. “There was a dog once in town who had a hurt leg. I fed it and let him know he’d get better, and he did. So, don’t worry none ‘bout Master Richard.”

  Abigail smiled at the innocence of his words. “Thank you, Patrick,” she said. “Let us hope the nurse has good news for us.”

  As if her name could conjure the woman, the door opened and Mrs. Donovan stepped into the sitting, quietly closing the door behind her.

  Abigail rushed forward. “How is he?”

  “His pain is subsiding, and now he is asleep,” the nurse replied in the same clipped tone she had spoken when she first arrived. Perhaps nurses had to be more forward; caring for patients was difficult enough without worried family members asking every few minutes after their charges. “The break in his leg was clean, which means it broke through and through. That is not a bad thing. Clean breaks heal faster and better than fractures, and based on others I have seen much like his, it should heal quickly.”

  This bit of good news brought some relief, but it was not the man’s leg that held her greater concern. “And his back? Will he walk again?”

  “That I cannot say. In a week’s time, there will be small exercises he will begin, and I can teach you how to do them if you would like. I will not be able to tend to him at all times. Once you return home, you may want to consider hiring a full-time nurse, but I am the only nurse currently not placed in a single home, which means I must see to several patients per day. Unless you wish to send for someone outside of Brighton?”

  Abigail shook her head. “No, if you show me what to do, I can care for him.” She paused. “Do you believe there is hope?”

  “Hope?” the woman asked. “Hope that he will walk again?”

  Abigail nodded.

  The woman gave her a smile and the pinched face softened. “I believe that, at times, hope is all we have. Do not despair, for he will need your strength as much as he will need his own.”

  “Thank you,” Abigail said as she walked the woman to the door.

  As Mrs. Donovan stepped through the door, she stopped and turned back around. “I doubt I have ever seen a duchess willing to care for her husband. You are a rarity.” Abigail felt a blush cross her face. “Now, it is imperative his spirits remain high. I will return tomorrow around nine to check in on him.”

  Abigail smiled. “I appreciate your time. Thank you.”

  Once the door was closed, Abigail returned to the sitting room. Patrick stood, his hands clasped behind his back.

  “Well, I suppose we should eat,” she said with a smile. She reached into her pocket and produced a few copper coins, all that she had with her, and placed them in his hands. “Your help has been invaluable,” she said with a smile. “I am in your debt.” She sighed. “I hate to ask more of you, but would you be willing to go once more to the hotel and have food brought back for us?”

  “Ya don’t owe me nothing, Miss Abigail,” the boy said, though he still put the coins in his trouser pocket. “I like helping ya out. I’ll be back quick as a flash.”

  Once the boy was gone, Abigail let out a sigh. Her eyes went to the door that led to where Richard now lay. She wanted to enter, to speak to him and tell him again how sorry she was, but she had seen his anger. Instead, she hung the kettle over the fire to make tea. She had no intention of angering him further, so she sat in a rocking chair beside the fireplace waiting for the water to boil.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Once, as a child, Richard had such a hard fall, he feared he would never walk again. The fear that had gripped him as he lay sobbing at the base of the tree subsided when he realized he could move his legs.

  As it turned out, he had merely bruised himself—and had the wind knocked out of him—when he had landed on the ground; not even a bone was broken. Though he had hobbled home, he had done so on his own accord, and he never forgot that day. Despite the fear and pain he had endured, he had risen from the ground and he was fine.

  Yet now, he was no longer a child with a bruised hip. He was a grown m
an. No, he was half a man. He groaned in frustration as he tried with all his might to move his toes. They did not heed his commands. Instead, they stared back at him as if they were no longer attached to his body, as if his lower limbs belonged to another person who lay beside him. He could not feel the blanket on which they lay. His feet could not feel the draft that cooled his arms. The thought of never feeling these things initially had made him feel sick before rage set in.

  His mind returned to the night before, how he had cried for help for so long he had no idea how much time had passed. The pain had been so great, much more so than when he was a child, and several times he had fainted between screams. He kept praying that Abigail would come for him, yet she never did.

  The nurse had left a short time ago, and he thought Abigail would have returned to check on him, to offer her sympathy and, more importantly, her love. Yet, it was a lesson he was learning, and he did not like it, not one bit. She did not love him; in fact, she had said straight out that she did not. Those words had sent him to that outcropping of rocks as a means to be alone, to think about the choices he had made in his life.

  Why had he decided to run off like a child? He could ask himself that question over and once again, but the truth was that it was exactly what he had done. He had left their room and gone to a nearby pub, one where men such as he did not frequent. He drank from a wooden tankard like some commoner, sneaking the last one out with him into the rain. The barkeep had not even noticed. Rain had soaked him through, for he had been so set on leaving, he had left behind his cloak. However, with the ale numbing him, he had not cared.

  At one point, he thought to return to Abigail, to give her the opportunity to explain and then hopefully she would allow him to speak. What he wanted was to ask her to give him the chance to prove his love for her, to show that she could be happy with him. In his heart, he knew that, in time, she would come to love him as he loved her.

  Fate, if one were to call it that, was cruel, however. For as he turned to make his way back to the hotel, a gust of wind sent rain pounding down into his eyes and he lost his footing. On his way down, he had hit several rocks that jutted from the side of the drop, landing on his leg, which lay under him at an awkward position. There he had lain for what seemed like days, crying out until he could no longer utter a sound, and still he forced the cries. Simply remembering it all made the events new once more, and he gripped the sheets to keep from crying out from the now imagined pain. For in all reality, he could not feel the pain he should have had from a broken leg. He wished he could feel that nothingness in his heart, as well.