Chapter 6 #3
Curling her knees up, she examined her ankle. The area near her ankle bone still ached when she moved her foot in a circle. Dropping back onto the seat, she covered her chest with her hand. Her heart beat was steady. Not at all what she expected.
She’d practically lit the match for Thomas Winser—or whoever had destroyed the Martins’ shop and home. If she had kept her mouth shut, the Martins would have been safer.
Her throat thickened, and she wiped her eyes.
Nothing had changed, despite her posturing.
She’d even made things worse for herself by potentially putting herself in Stephen’s favor.
Stephen was the type to only give favors if he had something to gain.
Tears slipped from the corners of her eyes, making trails on her cheeks.
She’d been so foolish to think she could help. After all, she possessed no skills. The only thing they meant her for was the role her father pushed her toward—to be the wife of a well-connected gentleman.
One wheel of the car hit a bump. She lurched forward. She put a steadying hand on Charlie. He moaned softly, and she switched seats, placing his head gently in her lap.
Though she was grateful Henry had agreed to come with her, she wished he would have stayed awake a while longer. Dr. Morgan had entrusted her with Charlie’s care to mock her or as punishment, she was sure, but she was glad he had. She felt helpless enough. At least now she had something to do.
Ginger closed her eyes, feeling the smooth sway of the wheels below her.
Her father had been one of the first of his friends to buy a motorcar.
He’d also installed a telephone well before anyone in the area.
New technology fascinated him, and he kept a close eye on opportunities to invest in industry.
The advantage they had now was that the new motorcar her father had purchased last year drove much faster than many others.
The roads would slow them down, especially while they were still in the country.
Time seemed to pass slowly and Ginger practiced finding her own pulse. Digging her fingers into her wrist, she chewed on her lip. Nothing. She tried repositioning her fingers.
Still nothing.
Maybe she was dead.
She laughed to herself, despite it all, and tried again. Once again, she failed. This can’t be so hard, for goodness’ sake.
Frustrated at her failure to do even the most rudimentary thing, she stomped her foot. She’d conquer this. She had to practice. Reaching up to her neck, she tried there. At last, she detected the faint beating of her pulse beside her throat.
“Henry,” she hissed, excitement clear in the increasing speed of her own pulse.
He groaned and opened one eye. “What?”
“Loan me your pocket watch.”
“You couldn’t have asked before I fell asleep?” Fumbling with his vest, he pulled it out and unclipped it. The metal was warm from his body as she took it from his outstretched hand.
She gave him an overly sweet smile, but he didn’t pay attention. Within minutes, he was asleep again. Another attempt to find the pulse in her wrist proved successful, and she angled the pocket watch toward the sliver of moonlight beside her, counting it.
When she had practiced a few times, she reached for Charlie’s wrist. Finding his pulse, she counted it. Strong.
Some of the tension in her shoulders relaxed.
She continued checking Charlie’s pulse every fifteen minutes. Each time, she held her breath. If something truly bad happened, it would be one more thing she could add to the growing list of ways she had interfered and hurt the Martins.
When they were about twenty minutes away from London, a shriek pierced the cabin of the motorcar. Bosworth swerved upon hearing it, quickly pulling the car back onto the road.
Charlie’s eyes were wide open with fright. He screamed again, rapid, panicked breaths racking his ribs.
“Charlie.” Ginger shook his shoulders gently. “Charlie, calm yourself. It’s all right.”
The boy’s eyes shut, tears finding their way from under his lids. Spittle formed on his lips and he thrashed, groaning.
“What’s wrong with him?” Henry blinked blearily, sitting straighter.
“I don’t know.” Ginger leaned closer to him, holding him gently. “Charlie, don’t move like that. You could hurt your leg. Be calm.” With soft, hushing breaths, she gripped him as he sobbed and cried.
“What do we do?” Henry’s brow creased with worry.
“Stay calm,” Ginger ordered over Charlie’s cries. “Don’t add to his distress.” She refocused her attentions on him, stroking his back. “Calm, Charlie. You must breathe. Deep breaths. Breathe deeply.”
Then, the tautness of his body released, his sobs eased to soft hiccups. As his body became less rigid, his torso shook. The sedative must have worn off some, or the pain intensified. His hands were tight fists, his jaw clenched.
“Mum,” he managed.
“Mum will be with you as soon as she can,” Ginger said, running her fingertips through his silky hair. She’d never noticed how soft a child’s hair could be. Did he even remember who Ginger was right now? He seemed incoherent.
As the shadowy buildings of the city drew closer, Charlie relaxed in her arms, his cries softer. Henry scrubbed his eyes and blinked at her. “How did you do that?”
“I-I haven’t the foggiest.” Ginger continued to hold Charlie tight. Her response had been natural. Perhaps a maternal instinct?
Whatever it had been, she’d calmed and helped him.
She swallowed, overwhelmed, even guilty of the sense of wonder overcoming her. Helping him through the pain may have been the most satisfying thing she’d ever done.