August Sunrise (The Silver Foxes of Westminster Book 2)

by Merry Farmer

  “Henry!” he shouted, wincing as he moved into position to climb down from the wreck. “Henry!”

  His driver was nowhere in sight, but a pair of shadowy figures were running toward the wreck in the dark.

  “Hello! Hello there,” a man with a rural accent shouted. “Are you all right?”

  Alex grimaced as he struggled down the overturned carriage, pulling Marigold toward him, then into his arms. He wasn’t stable enough to support her weight on legs that were more injured than he’d accounted for, and they both spilled to the ground.

  “Fetch Dr. Miller,” the voice shouted, much closer to them. Moments later, heavy footsteps reached the wreck, where Alex lay, cradling Marigold against him. “We saw the carriage tearing through the night without a driver,” the man said. “Saw it run off the road, hit something, and go flying through the air.”

  The words barely registered. “My wife,” Alex panted, trying desperately to push through his pain. “My wife.”

  The man—a farmer, judging by his dress, or what Alex could see of it in the moonlight—jumped into action. He scooped Marigold up in his beefy arms, then paused to see if Alex needed help as well. Alex considered it lucky that he could power his way to his feet on his own, though he leaned against the man’s shoulder until he was certain he was steady.

  “My home’s just this way,” the farmer said, starting slowly across the uneven terrain of the field they’d crashed in. “I’ll send me son to take care of the horse.”

  Alex had no idea how long it took to trudge across the field to the tiny, thatched cottage. It could have been an hour or a minute. He was grateful for the light and the simple bed that the farmer lay Marigold on.

  “I’ll fix some tea,” a woman who must have been his wife said, crossing herself.

  “Dr. Miller is on his way,” the farmer assured them.

  Alex nodded, but his full attention was on Marigold. He’d never seen anyone look so pale, at least not since Violetta’s last days. The horrific, helpless memories of those days pounded through him with every beat of his heart. He couldn’t lose another one. Every woman he’d ever loved died.

  As soon as the thought came, he pushed it away, crouching on the side of the bed and gathering Marigold in his arms. “Marigold,” he murmured, then louder, “Marigold. Wake up.”

  She was so still. Blood stained her fine gown from more than just the cut across her forehead. Her arms and a good deal of her chest were exposed by the summer fashion, and cuts, scrapes, and bruises marred her perfect skin. But there was still more blood, on her skirt and what he could see of her ankles. He reached for the hem of her skirt, anxious to see if she’d somehow cut her legs, even with layers of skirts and petticoats.

  A deep, sick feeling formed in his stomach as he bunched up her skirts. The tiny bit of blood on her ankles was nothing to what he discovered the higher up her legs he went. By the time he made it to the top of her thighs, he choked, dizzy with panic. Her drawers were soaked with it.

  “Where’s Dr. Miller?” he bellowed, panic sucking him under.

  “He’s on the way,” the farmer’s wife called from the other room.

  Marigold stirred, groaning with pain. Her eyes fluttered, but didn’t quite open. She writhed, trying to roll to the side and curl into herself, clutching her stomach.

  “Marigold,” Alex panted, eyes wide, heart racing. His hands shook as he brushed her forehead, not sure if he should hold her or keep his distance. But no, he couldn’t let her lie there in pain without knowing how desperately he loved her. “Marigold, hold on. The doctor is coming. I’m here. Hold on.”

  She groaned louder as sweat broke out on her forehead. Alex hunched over her, hugging her and trying to keep her from moving too much or too hard. Instinct told him to keep her as still as possible, whether that was the right thing to do or not.

  “It’s all right,” he whispered to her, shaking as he held her, eyes blurry with tears. “You’ll be all right. Everything will be fine.”

  Time seemed to drag and fly at the same time. He held Marigold as she groaned, never quite coming around. That was easier than when her eyes rolled back in her head and she stopped moving or crying at all. The best Alex could hope for was that she would continue to breathe.

  At last, Dr. Miller arrived.

  “What happened?” he asked as he marched into the room, setting his bag on the side of the bed. He pushed Alex aside as he sat to examine her.

  A rush of anger at being cast off so cavalierly kept Alex from answering immediately.

  “The carriage wrecked,” the farmer said. Alex hadn’t noticed him stepping into the doorway. “We saw it from the garden. Tore through the night like Satan himself were on its heels, then smashed when it hit a rock or some such.”

  Dr. Miller nodded, grasping Marigold’s head and turning it this way and that. He felt her pulse and checked the cuts on her arms, humming and grunting the whole time. When he palpitated her stomach, Marigold let out a pained groan.

  “Marigold.” Alex rushed forward, but Dr. Miller held out an arm, glaring at him, and holding him back. Alex licked his dry lips, unable to catch more than a shallow breath. “There’s more,” he said, feeling sick. “Blood. Under her skirt.”

  Dr. Miller frowned at him, pursed his lips, and lifted the hem of Marigold’s skirt. As soon as he saw what Alex had seen, his irritated expression burst into alarm. “Out!” he shouted, standing and reaching for his bag. “Everybody out of here. Get him out and keep him out.”

  “No, I won’t leave,” Alex said, even as the farmer grabbed both of his arms from behind and wrestled him out of the room. “I won’t leave my wife. Marigold! I won’t leave her side.”

  He had no choice. The farmer was younger and much stronger than he was, and in spite of all his effort, Alex ended up standing in the main room of the house as Dr. Miller slammed the door on him. He yanked and struggled and did everything he could to break free of the farmer’s grasp, but all too soon, he realized how futile his efforts were. There was nothing he could do but wait.

  “Have a cuppa tea,” the farmer’s wife said gently. Her expression was painfully sympathetic. “You could use a few sticking plasters on your face yourself, sir,” she added.

  Alex lifted a hand to his forehead. It came away bloody. It hadn’t dawned on him that he was injured too, not when Marigold was in such dire circumstances. The tension drained away from him, and the farmer finally let him go. All the pain and exhaustion he’d kept at bay pressed in on him, and it was all he could do to make it to one of the rough chairs by the cottage’s fireplace before collapsing.

  He let the farmer’s wife bring him tea and tend to his wounds. She suspected his left arm was broken, and as soon as his fear for Marigold lessened, the pain was bad enough for him to agree with her. She splinted it while they waited for Dr. Miller to finish with Marigold.

  That wait stretched on and on. Alex’s initial panic gave way to a fresh, more potent wave.

  “What’s going on in there?” he shouted after what felt like an eternity of waiting. He tried to push himself up from the chair to go find out, but between the way his entire body ached and the warning glance of the farmer, all he could do was shout from where he sat. “I demand to know what’s wrong with my wife.”

  “I’ll go and check,” the farmer’s wife said with a pitying half-smile.

  She walked to the door, knocked, then poked her head in. But instead of asking questions or saying anything at all, she let out a sudden, horrified gasp and backed into the main room, snapping the door tightly shut behind her. She whipped around, all color drained from her face, and pressed her back to the door.

  “What?” Alex demanded, leaning forward in spite of the pain it caused. “What is going on in there?”

  The farmer’s wife raised a trembling hand to her chest, then her mouth. Then she let it drop. “Th-the doctor has everything under control,” she squeaked.

  Alex surged forward, not believing a word she said, b
ut the farmer blocked him before he could stand.

  “I demand to know what’s going on with my wife,” Alex shouted, feeling right on the edge of madness. He couldn’t catch his breath, and his heart felt as though it were about to leap from his chest. “Goddammit, tell me what’s going on.”

  “I-it’ll be all right,” the farmer’s wife said, utterly unconvincing. “I’m sure Dr. Miller knows what he’s doing.”

  The only thing that stopped Alex from ripping the farmer and his entire house apart to get to Marigold was the commotion caused by Henry, Edward, and one of Edward’s servants bursting through the door.

  “We heard what happened,” Edward said, slurring his words.

  Alex glared at Henry. “The devil take you,” he shouted. “Your incompetent driving might cost me my wife. You’re dismissed without a reference this minute.”

  “It wasn’t me,” Henry gaped in return. “It wasn’t me. I didn’t even know the carriage was gone. It was another bloke, the one who was skulking about at the party.”

  “It’s true, sir,” Edward’s servant backed Henry up. “We all assumed he was someone else’s driver. There were so many people at the party.”

  “I’ve sent people to look for whoever it was,” Edward went on, looking as though he were struggling mightily to be sober enough to handle the situation, but not succeeding. “The constable and his men are out looking too, but the bastard can’t be found.”

  Alex stared at his brother. The information coming at him was slow to sink in. Someone other than Henry had driven off with them and somehow deliberately set the carriage on a path to destruction. It hadn’t been an accident at all. It was attempted murder. His gaze snapped to the closed bedroom door. It very well could be murder, depending on what was happening in that room. And as far as Alex was concerned, he knew of only one man who had reason to murder him. Turpin.

  “There’s tea enough for everyone,” the farmer’s wife spoke wearily into the stunned silence. She moved away from the bedroom door, disappearing into the kitchen.

  Alex slumped back in his seat, eyes still glued to the door. His wife could be in that room dying while Turpin likely laughed and bragged to his friends about getting rid of their chief opposition. He would murder the man. If Marigold didn’t make it through, he would kill the man with his bare hands.

  Time stretched on again—or not, Alex still couldn’t tell—before the bedroom door opened at last. Dr. Miller stepped through, but the sight of him wasn’t a comfort at all. He’d donned an apron, with was splashed with blood. His hands were stained with it. Alex’s chest constricted to the point of agony, and it felt as though his heart stopped completely.

  “I’m afraid she’s lost the baby,” Dr. Miller said.

  The whole world stopped. Alex’s vision went black at the edges. His stomach roiled and his lungs wouldn’t draw in air.

  “And unfortunately, there were complications when I attempted to ascertain whether the entire fetus was expelled or, like before….” His words faded away, and he waved a hand. For some reason, he couldn’t quite meet Alex’s eyes. “We’ll speak about this some other time, when you’re well.”

  “What complications?” Alex demanded, surging forward. He still didn’t have the energy to stand. “Is she alive? Will she live?”

  “Your wife is alive, sir,” Dr. Miller said wearily. “She is young and strong, and I believe that, with time, she will make a full—” He stopped and shook his head with a weary sigh. “She will recover.”

  If anything, Alex’s alarm doubled. “What are you saying, man? Will she be all right or not?”

  Dr. Miller sighed harder. “As I said, there were complications with…with my examination.”

  “Dammit, man!” Alex pushed himself to stand. The farmer looked like he might block him yet again, but Edward and Henry stepped in, supporting Alex under his arms. “I demand you tell me what you’re refusing to say.”

  “It’s too soon to tell,” Dr. Miller reeled back, raising his bloody hands as if to defend himself. “It may be nothing. The bleeding has stopped, for the most part, although there may still be—”

  “What did you do to her?” Alex roared. The dragon he’d pretended to be with James that afternoon raged within him.

  “There was scarring,” Dr. Miller said at last, as pitiful as a terrified child. “At least, there will be. My instruments…it was difficult to see what I was doing…I was only trying to make sure that the incomplete expulsion of the placenta that happened to Violetta didn’t happen to this one.”

  “Women don’t need fancy doctoring when they lose a baby,” the farmer’s wife said, gaping at Dr. Miller. “Nature takes care of the loss. You didn’t try to interfere with it, did you?”

  “I want to see my wife,” Alex demanded, pulling away from Edward and Henry.

  No one tried to stop him as he marched into the bedroom. Whatever Dr. Miller had done, he’d tried to clean up from it, or hide it. Marigold was covered with a blanket, but flecks of blood were still visible here and there. A pile of linen that looked as though it also contained the skirt and petticoat of Marigold’s dress sat in a corner, discreetly covered with a towel. Alex only gave it a cursory, horrified look before flying to the bed and sinking to sit by Marigold’s side.

  He grabbed her limp hand and held it to his cheek. At least she was breathing, though she was still as pale as the sheets around her. A bottle of laudanum sat on the table beside the bed.

  “Oh, my darling,” Alex choked out as tears stung his eyes. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry that I did this to you. Just stay with me. Stay with me.”

  He kissed her hand, his tears dropping on her fingers, then curled forward to shelter her body with his. If only he’d been able to shelter her from everything else.

  Chapter 14

  She couldn’t pick up her fan. She wasn’t sure why she’d dropped it in the first place…or where it had gone…or why everything around her was so dark and misty. All Marigold knew was that every time she bent to pick up her fan, searing pain shot through her middle. And yet that urgency, that sense of having lost something, pressed down on her, urging her to try again and again and again. But she couldn’t bend, couldn’t pick up what she’d lost. She didn’t even know where she was.

  The terrifying, frustrating void stretched on and on, until she felt as though she’d been searching through the darkness, looking for what was lost, bending to reach for it, and crying out in pain for years, an eternity. And it was hot. Not just because August was upon them. Everything was hot, no matter which way she turned.

  At one point, she thought Alex was there, murmuring soothing words to her. She clung to him as the pain and heat rose to a fevered pitch. For a moment, she opened her eyes and was left with the uncanny impression that she wasn’t on some black, misty plane looking for her fan at all, she was lying flat in the bed of a wagon, the scent of the hay packed around her thick in her nostrils. Alex held her, stroking her forehead and murmuring, “We’ll be home soon, we’ll be home soon.”

  But that felt like a lifetime ago. The swirling darkness returned, as hot as an inferno, and once again, she twisted and turned, aching every time she bent, unable to reach what she’d lost, or even figure out what it was.

  And then the heat faded away. The pain dulled to a constant ache, and the restlessness of her search calmed to deep, deep sleep.

  It felt as though she were rising from some sort of evil enchantment when, at last, she pried her eyes open. Bright sunlight streamed in through curtains that billowed in a summer breeze. She recognized the window. She was in bed, in the bed she shared with Alex. Something cool and wet was being daubed on her forehead by unskilled hands. She blinked, drew in a breath, and forced her eyes to focus.

  James. James sat on the bed by her side, patting her forehead with a wet rag. He wore a serious look on his cherubic face, which was less than a foot from hers. As soon as Marigold’s eyes fluttered open, he drew in a breath and let go of the rag, leaving it on her
forehead.

  “Mari,” he shouted, clapping his hands. “Mari awake.”

  A shuffle and snort sounded from one of the chairs beyond the foot of the bed. With what felt like immense effort, Marigold shifted her head to find Alex lifting from what looked like a sleeping position. One of his arms was bound in what looked like a sling.

  “Mari awake! Mari awake!” James called out, bouncing his way down the bed. His every movement sent dull, throbbing pain through Marigold, but she couldn’t find the energy to care.

  “Marigold?” Alex leapt from the chair. If he had been snoozing, he was fully awake now. He darted to the side of the bed, jostling it and sending a spear of pain through Marigold’s stomach and hips as he sat, and grabbed her hand from where it rested on the bedcovers with his uninjured hand. “Thank God, Marigold.”

  He lifted her hand to his lips, covering her knuckles with kisses, then pressed it to his forehead as he bent over and sobbed.

  “No cry, Macky,” James said, scrambling over Marigold’s legs and causing a fresh wave of pain that darkened the edges of her vision. “Mari awake.”

  “Yes,” Alex said, relief thick in his voice. “Marigold is awake, but we must be careful with her.”

  He let her hand go so that he could lift James off of her legs and into his good arm. The other one was definitely broken and healing. Marigold watched the two of them, focusing on her breathing and how good something so simple felt.

  “What happened?” she asked, surprised at how weak and rough the words sounded.

  Alex hesitated, wiping tears from his face, then dodging James as he tried to continue wiping them. He gently caught James’s hands and held them so that he would stop. “There was an accident. The carriage crashed,” he began reluctantly.