One Week to Wed

by Laurie Benson

  ‘Charlotte!’

  The name was called out by a man somewhere to his right and Andrew turned so quickly to follow the exclamation it was a wonder he didn’t hurt his neck. His hope at catching a glimpse of his wife was dashed the moment he saw a little girl run into the arms of an older gentleman for a firm hug.

  He had been doing very well at not thinking about her when they’d walked here from the inn. This was the first time in hours she had crossed his mind and he told himself it was only because he had heard her name. There wasn’t time to think about her further because the sounds of music and shouts coming from Deansgate indicated Mr Hunt and his party had arrived. From where he stood he could see a band turning in, followed by several men holding flags, and then Mr Hunt and his party. As they made their way through the crowd to the stage, one universal shout of huzzah arose from the crowd.

  When Mr Hunt reached the stage, he took off his white hat and began to address the crowd. They watched him silently, straining to hear his every word. There was a sense of respect in the air that you could almost feel.

  Suddenly, a noise followed by a murmur rose through the crowd by the church. From where he stood, Andrew could see a party of cavalrymen in blue and white uniforms trotting with swords in hand around the corner of a garden wall. They reined up in line in front of a row of new houses. They were a formidable sight. One that pricked Andrew’s senses. If the magistrates saw fit to have the yeomanry present to ensure order on a crowd this size, Andrew could understand. But from their seat on horseback, Andrew knew they had no intention of remaining there quietly. The crowd was peaceful and, from what he had observed over the hours he had spent amongst them, they had every intention of remaining that way.

  His instincts about the men on horseback proved accurate when, without warning, they waved their sabres over their heads and, striking spur to their horses, dashed forward into the crowd, slicing at people that were in their way. Shouts and screams rose up around Andrew as people began to run. The cavalry was attempting to make its way to the stage, but the compact mass of people impeded their progress. Their sabres shone in the sunlight, covered with blood from the bare held-up hands, limbs, and heads they hacked. Piteous cries and heartrending sobs filled the air, along with sounds of hoofbeats. People were running in all directions—men, women and children. He tried to make his way to the stage to get to Spence and Henderson when a number of cavalry officers decided they could reach the stage from that route, as well.

  Andrew pushed his way through the crowd pressing towards him when his gaze landed on a tall woman dressed in white not far from one of the soldiers on horseback and he froze. It was Charlotte. She spotted him at the exact same moment and a cry of his name roared from her lips as she ran from Toby and Ann’s side towards him. He thought he must be hallucinating. It wasn’t until she reached his arms and held on tight that he was certain it was her.

  He tried to shield her from the crowd with his arms. Scanning the masses for a safe way out, he caught Henderson’s eye some distance away as she pulled Spence back by the hand and pointed to Andrew. His ginger-haired friend looked at Charlotte and then tipped his hat to Andrew before he pulled Henderson towards a group of cavalry men who were arresting Hunt.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Charlotte yelled as Toby and Ann ran up to them.

  ‘We have a carriage,’ Toby shouted. ‘Follow us.’

  Andrew nodded before tightening his grip on Charlotte’s hand and charging with her through the crowd. A thundering sound followed them and grew louder as if the horse that was making the sound would roll over them like a wave. A horrible pain sliced through Andrew’s right arm and Charlotte screamed beside him as a man on horseback rode past them.

  Through the tremendous pain Andrew kept running, knowing he needed to reach Toby’s carriage and get Charlotte to safety. Their hands, clasped tightly together, were warm and wet with his blood.

  Within ten minutes St Peter’s Field was empty of the chaos, but littered with personal objects and bodies of the wounded and dead. Andrew could see it at a distance as he sat inside Toby’s carriage while his friend’s driver was preparing the horses and he was instructing Charlotte how tie one of her long gloves around his arm as a tourniquet.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  It took Charlotte three tries to open the door to her house because her hand was shaking. Andrew, standing beside her, was of no help. His eyes were closed and he was in obvious pain. If only he hadn’t instructed Toby and Ann to go home. She could have used their help right now.

  Andrew needed her physician. Doctor Colter would know what to do. But when she suggested they ride directly to him, Andrew insisted they couldn’t spare the time to go that far.

  ‘Wells!’ she screamed, calling for her butler as she pushed open the door.

  The thin man who was old enough to be her father came running into the entrance hall as white as a sheet. The last time she’d screamed for anyone in this house was the moment she had found out Jonathan had died.

  ‘I need you to fetch Dr Colter. Tell him we need him immediately. The master of the house is injured.’

  The man’s eyes widened at the sight of blood soaking Gabriel’s entire sleeve and a good part of Charlotte’s white dress before he rushed towards the front door.

  ‘Wait!’ Andrew bit out through his teeth. ‘Charlotte, if we wait much longer to remove this tourniquet, I will lose this arm.’ He turned back to Wells, who was frozen in the doorway with fear in his eyes. ‘Is there brandy?’

  Wells nodded, seeming afraid to speak. She couldn’t blame him.

  ‘Thank God,’ Andrew muttered on a sigh. ‘Two bottles of it. And a needle with lots of thread. In the drawing room. Now!’

  Without waiting for a reply, Andrew took to the stairs with Charlotte fresh on his heels. Sunlight streamed in from the open window as he stumbled on to the yellow-brocade window seat. Charlotte ran and knelt beside him.

  ‘Take off my cravat. You’re going to help me stop the bleeding.’

  ‘No. No. We need a physician.’ Her hands were trembling so much she didn’t think she would be able to untie the knot.

  ‘There isn’t time. We are going to do this together.’

  She unwound the linen from his neck and prayed he wouldn’t die from all the blood that had been seeping out of his body. When he left it was as though a light had gone out in her world and no matter what she did or who she saw, that light would not come back—until she spotted him amidst the chaos at St Peter’s Field. She couldn’t think any more about why he was in Manchester and hadn’t come to see her. She needed to stop him from bleeding.

  Mr Wells came running back into the room with two bottles of brandy, two stemmed glasses and her sewing basket.

  Andrew had lost his hat in the tussle and sweat was dripping down his temples. ‘I’ll need clean linen we can rip into strips.’ His voice was strained, but he was composed.

  Once more he had her butler running for the door.

  ‘You need to untie your glove. Once you do, my arm will begin bleeding again.’ There was clear determination in his eyes. ‘We are going to save my arm. I need you to believe that.’

  How much blood did one body hold? He had lost so much already. It was hard to slow her breathing, but she was going to do everything she could to help him.

  ‘How do we even stop the bleeding?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ll know once I look inside the wound.’

  Breathing through her mouth, she unknotted the glove he had instructed her to tie tightly on his arm over an hour ago. Blood gurgled to the surface and covered her hands as she helped him slip out of his coat and waistcoat. When she removed his shirt, he held his breath as she pulled the linen gingerly away from the wound.

  ‘Press my shirt into it as hard as you can and hand me a bottle of brandy.’

  She pushed his shirt down over the
wound and handed him one of the green-glass bottles.

  He took a long drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His ragged breathing was evident with the rise and fall of his bare chest. ‘We need to clean the wound. Remove the shirt.’

  Just as she opened her mouth to call out for someone to bring water and soap, Andrew poured the brandy over the wound and let out a terrible inhuman sound that bounced around her body. Brandy and blood ran off his arm on to the wooden floor. When he spread the six-inch wound apart to look inside the bloody mess, she ran to the window and sucked in some air.

  ‘Bone seems intact,’ he ground out over her shoulder.

  With one last deep breath, she closed her eyes.

  I will not be sick. I will not be sick.

  ‘Charlotte, grab a needle and thread. You have to stitch my arm up.’

  I’m going to be sick. I’m going to be sick.

  ‘Charlotte!’

  She turned to find him staring at her. Blood was continuing to soak his shirt while he held it to his arm.

  ‘I cannot do this alone. The gash is on my right arm. I will never be able to thread the needle and use my left hand to sew.’

  ‘Surely someone else—’

  ‘No, I need you. If we don’t do this now, I will eventually bleed out.’

  Mr Wells ran back in, looking green, with a bunch of clean linen in his hand. Charlotte grabbed it and shooed him out of the room. It took her a few tries to thread the needle, but she finally managed to do it.

  ‘Pour brandy on it.’ His voice wasn’t as commanding as before and he was blinking as if trying to stay awake.

  She couldn’t imagine how badly the brandy was burning his arm. He had drunk a considerable amount from the bottle in his bloodied hand and there was only an inch or two left when she took it from him. As she poured the remaining brandy on the needle and thread, he grabbed the other bottle from the table and swayed before steadying himself enough to sit down on the floor and lean back on the wall between the windows.

  Without a word, he motioned for her to come closer. ‘When I remove this, pinch the wound closed and sew deep.’

  That was it? That was all the instruction she was given? How did one sew flesh?

  ‘Vomit away from me, Char.’

  She met his half-lidded eyes and a faint smile curved his lips as if a full smile was too much effort. He wasn’t the only one who needed brandy. She took a swig from his bottle and handed it back. It burned her throat and made her eyes water, but hopefully it would steady her nerves.

  ‘I can do this. I can do this.’ She didn’t care that she was talking out loud. He had asked her to do this, so he would just have to listen to her try to convince herself she could.

  ‘It’s like mending gloves. I’m just mending gloves.’

  Bloodied gloves that had muscles that flexed each time she stuck a needle in them.

  ‘Doing fine,’ he slurred as he continued to drink from the bottle.

  Dear God, she should have made him lie down. What would she do if he toppled over in the middle of a stitch? He couldn’t fall asleep. Or pass out. She needed to keep him awake.

  ‘Why were you at St Peter’s today?’

  ‘To hear Hunt.’

  ‘You told Toby and Ann you were planning on seeing me when you left there today. That wasn’t true, was it?’ She held her breath, waiting for his reply.

  ‘No. No, it wasn’t.’

  Hearing he had not wanted to see her made a painful knot form in her chest. But she needed to finish sewing him up and she needed to keep him talking. ‘How do you know how to take care of this?’ she asked, motioning towards his arm.

  ‘Training...for the field.’

  ‘What field?’

  He took another swig of brandy. ‘I’ve done it.’

  ‘Done what? You’ve sewn up a wound?’

  He was looking at her through one eye when she glanced up. ‘Spence. Knife fight. Couldn’t do it himself. Bloody imbecile.’

  ‘Knife fight? Why was he in a knife fight?’

  ‘Crown. Always for the Crown.’

  ‘Someone you know was in a knife fight for money?’

  He let out a small breath that under different circumstances might have been a laugh. ‘Not that Crown.’

  He wasn’t making sense and both of his eyes were closing. She only had a few more stiches to go.

  ‘Hurts,’ he groaned.

  The sound of his pain brought tears to her eyes and broke her heart. He was a good man. He had done nothing to deserve this. ‘I know it hurts. I’m almost finished.’ She tried to soothe him with her words and clear her blurry vision. ‘See. Just like mending gloves. You’ll be fine.’

  ‘No, my heart. It hurts. I...’

  Her hand stilled on the final stitch and she looked up at him.

  He licked his lips. A sheen of sweat glistened on his bare chest that was rising and falling unevenly with his erratic breathing, and his eyes were closed in agony. ‘I shouldn’t love you,’ he breathed out. ‘Don’t know how to stop. Need to leave.’

  His head lolled to the side.

  Her world tilted.

  ‘Andrew? Andrew!’

  Seeing that his chest was still rising and falling, she raised the back of her hand to her mouth to stifle a sob. The coppery scent of his warm, wet blood filled her nose.

  He loved her. She never thought she would ever hear those words again. And coming from Andrew—the man she...she... Oh, God! Tears fell. She loved him. Her heart had hurt for so long, she had stopped listening to it. But now it was screaming at her to hold on to him. She would not let him leave. Not this time. She loved him and was miserable without him. They belonged together. She just needed to finish stitching him up and tell him.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Andrew could feel himself being pulled out of a deep sleep and was grateful for the soft mattress his body was melting into. He wasn’t sure which hurt more, his head or his arm. As he slowly opened his eyes to the darkness, he was beginning to think it was his head.

  Months ago, waking up to find himself in unfamiliar surroundings would have set his pulse racing, but this time it helped that he recognised traces of Charlotte’s perfume in the air. He took a deep breath, finding comfort in her scent.

  The mattress dipped beside him. With the scratch of flint against steel, she lit a candle and secured it in a holder on the table beside the bed. There were shadows under her eyes and concern etched on her brow. The last time he had seen her, she was covered in his blood. Now she was wrapped in a pink dressing gown and her long black hair was twisted into a braid. This was much better.

  She rested her warm palm on his forehead. ‘Still no fever. That’s a good sign.’

  ‘Where am I?’

  ‘My bedchamber. I had the footmen bring you here after I cleaned you as best I could. I thought you’d rest more comfortably in a bed instead of on the drawing-room floor. After the sun comes up and you’ve rested some more, I’ll call for a warm bath for you. How are you feeling?’

  ‘Sore. And my head hurts like the devil. My arm aches, but I still have it. And I didn’t die. Thank you. I wouldn’t be lying in this bed intact if it weren’t for you.’ He wished he could have held her hand to offer some reassurance and remove the creases from her forehead. But he needed to start trying to lock away his feelings for her. He would leave when the sun came up. He had to. ‘What time is it?’

  She walked with the candle to the clock on the mantel and then came back to sit on the edge of the bed. ‘It’s almost two.’

  ‘Why do I sleep for so long when I am in your bed?’ he asked, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

  ‘I believe this time you had a very good reason. Do you remember anything that happened?’

  ‘My head is not that muddled with brandy that I could forg
et being hacked with a sabre.’ It was a struggle, but he managed to sit up.

  ‘And do you remember what happened after that?’

  There was a catch to her voice he hadn’t missed. ‘Most of it.’ Apparently, he must have passed out, which was something he had never done. He could only remember Charlotte’s first few stitches into his arm. He didn’t recall her finishing or anything after that. Drinking to excess was dangerous. Things could be said. Secrets could be spilled. That was why he never did it—until now. But the gash was too long and too deep, and he had needed something to numb the pain.

  She toyed with the fabric in her lap, but continued to look at him with concern. ‘Why were you so insistent I should be the one to stitch you up? Why did it have to be me?’

  He couldn’t tell her that looking at her kept him calm. He couldn’t tell her that if something were to happen to him, he wanted her face to be the last one he saw. He couldn’t tell her any of that, so instead he gave her another reason. ‘I knew you could do it.’

  ‘I thought you were in London. Why were you in Manchester?’

  ‘I saw an announcement in the paper about the meeting. You seemed impressed with Mr Hunt. I decided I wanted to hear what he had to say. Why were you there? You could have been injured or killed. That was no place for you.’

  ‘Had I known it would turn violent, I never would have gone. I am not a proponent of violence to achieve reform. This was to be a peaceful gathering to hear constructive ideas. Everyone was told to arrive sober and come without any implements that might be misconstrued as weapons. And yet they came at us with sabres drawn, hacking through a crowd of innocent men, women and children. Did you see the children?’ There was anguish in her eyes.

  ‘I did.’ And it made him sick. ‘I don’t know why it started.’