They hadn’t traveled very far when Davis realized his mistake. The streets were blocked and his carriage stopped; his groom lashed his whip into the air and his footman yelled at the mob to “make passage for His Lordship Viscount Edderle!” A rock hit his carriage. “What in the hell?” he said.
“We have to get out of here!” Dalgliesh said, panicked.
“You are right,” Davis muttered, but before he could tell his driver, his door was flung open and he was torn from the carriage. The mob was uncoordinated and he was able to land a couple of decent punches, but the multitude made up in numbers what they lacked in organization. He felt the blood on his face before the actual pain of the blows; but the tear in his shoulder as it was pulled from its socket hit him immediately. Somehow the footman was spared and he and Dalgliesh managed to pull Davis back into the carriage.
The shock of the pain throughout his body was all that kept Davis from mercifully drifting out of consciousness. He felt every jolt of the carriage and the terror in Dalgliesh’s voice as he urged the groom to drive faster. In the haze, Davis calmly wondered if he was dying.
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The sudden reappearance of Davis’ carriage, the bloody mess of its passengers and their near hysteria while they carried Davis back into the house unnerved Rebecca who was in the drawing room with Susanne while the children napped.
“What happened?” she kept asking, but no one could answer immediately. It was Susanne who took charge, sending for the doctor, advising that the nurse make sure the children remained in their rooms lest they become frightened, and gathering the manpower to take Davis, who was now unconscious, to a servant’s bedroom on the first floor.
He is so white, Rebecca though, as she gently wiped the blood from his face with a warm cloth Susanne handed her. Stroking his face was the only thing that kept her from screaming for someone to bring the doctor, faster! Both eyes and his lips were swollen and turning purple. There was a gash on his scalp that continued to bleed and his left arm was positioned oddly like a marionette without its master.
Dalgliesh was in a corner chair gratefully drinking a mug of ale and trying to explain what had happened. All he could manage to say was “They were all over him. I tried. I’m sorry.” Susanne held him close while he sobbed. Somewhere in the mansion, the groom and the footman were telling their own story of how the Lord had been beaten and how fortunate they were to have escaped with their lives. London had become a madhouse.
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Davis’ shoulder was dislocated and it took the strength of two men to pull it back into place. His violent scream signaled to Rebecca that he was still alive. She would not leave the room while the doctor stitched Davis’ head and wrapped his cracked ribs. The physical damage was obviously severe, but it would be days before the doctor would know the full impact of the injuries.
Rebecca wanted Davis moved to their bedroom against the doctor’s wishes. On this she was insistent and knowing that she would not be dissuaded, a stretcher was rigged and he was tied down to keep him as motionless as possible. Once he was settled in bed the doctor left for supper, promising to return within the hour.
It was hours before Davis awoke. While he slept, Rebecca stayed with him, staring out of the window watching areas so close to their house burn.
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Davis could see the back of Michael ahead of him. He called to him, but Michael was always just out of reach. Finally he turned to Davis and said, “She needs you.” As he drifted in and out of sleep, he heard Rebecca’s voice. “Don’t leave me, Davis,” she was whispering. “I can’t lose you, too.”
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Davis resisted opening his eyes, hoping that if he was asleep, he wouldn’t feel the pain. But he finally gave in. The room was candlelit and there was an unsteady glow coming from the windows that was not sunshine. He didn’t see Rebecca, but Susanne was in a chair by his bed. He tried to sit up and the motion caught her attention.
“Don’t try to move,” she said.
His throat was parched, his tongue swollen and fuzzy. Susanne was already pouring him a glass of cider and gently tipped it to his lips. He couldn’t remember anything from the afternoon save leaving the house. When he realized that he couldn’t breathe from his nose, he understood why his mouth was so dry.
Susanne’s touch was gentle, but his body still felt as though every nerve was on fire. She slipped a pill into his mouth and helped him drink enough to swallow. He could taste the blood mixed with cider and the bitter medicine.
“What happened?” he was able to croak out.
“There was a riot. You were injured, but the doctor says you will heal.”
“Rebecca?”
“She has been up with you all night. She is checking on Ava.”
No sooner did she answer Davis than Rebecca came back to the room. The swelling in Davis’ face had increased while he slept; the bruises were more pronounced. But when he looked at her, she saw the light of recognition, relief, and something more. She knew then that he would survive and the sudden knowledge caused her to finally let her tears flow.
She wanted to hold him, but restrained herself, aware of how much pain he must be in. As she came to his side, she was dimly aware of Susanne squeezing her arm in reassurance before she left them alone.
He tried to smile, to reassure her as well, but all he managed was a swollen grimace. “Rest darling,” Rebecca said. “We can talk later.”
Davis just stared at her face while she gently caressed his hand. “I thought I had lost you again,” she whispered.
Again? There was a softness to her face that he hadn’t seen in years, a vulnerability that he knew was not because of the candlelight. She had been angry for so long that it had become a normal part of her; the sight of Davis so broken had frightened her badly. While Davis slept, she wondered if this was her punishment for loving Michael and not forgiving Davis for loving Michael. They had been in limbo since his death, pretending they had moved forward, but unable to let go of the past that haunted them everyday.
“I love you,” she said, her voice genuine and thick with the emotion she had suppressed for years. “Thank you for coming back to me.”
He took her hand still clasped in his, placed it on his lips then laid it on his heart.
*************************
The rioters moved east the next day and spent the week destroying homes, businesses, churches and lives. They burned prisons and set their occupants free to join in the violence. While mostly Catholic parts of London burned, the government wrung its hands until the King finally summoned his council and sent the military to restore order.
Davis began a long recovery. When it was safe, the household left for St. Clare’s. The physical scars diminished with time, but he would never again feel comfortable in a crowd. He would walk with a slight limp and came to dread the cold dampness that made his entire left side ache.
Finally, though they did not discuss it, Rebecca and Davis could each let go the shadow of Michael and become friends and lovers again.
Acknowledgments
In September 2011, my friend Pam encouraged me to go to a Writer’s workshop with her. For years, I’d been “working” on a novel about two little boys living in Southside Virginia during the Second World War, but in all honesty, hadn’t written anything. I was ready to give up on writing after the workshop. That night, I had a dream, so vivid and so complete. The next day, I began The Price of a Pearl. Thank you Pam for suggesting the workshop and all your support while I wrote.
Thanks to Missy, who after my husband, has been my most supportive cheerleader. She’s slogged through first draft and revisions, made suggestions and encouraged all my writing, not just this novel.
When I started to doubt myself, my two sons, Charlie and Thomas threw back at me all the “words of wisdom” I’d used on them for 20 plus years. Nice to know they were listening. Thanks also to Thomas for the de
sign of the cover. Now go tell your friends to read this!
And of course, Chuck, who gave me the time at work, time at home and time away that I needed to finish this. I love you.
About the Author
Laura Carroll Butler lives in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia with her husband, Chuck, her cat and the animals her grown sons left behind when they moved out. The Price of a Pearl is her first novel.
Laura Carroll Butler Page 24