Chapter Four
Samuel opened his eyes to find his room in shadowed darkness, lit only by two candles.
He noticed several things at once: not only did his arm hurt from being shot, but his entire body ached deep inside to his bones.
His stomach felt empty, and when he went to move his arm, he barely had the strength to do so.
Also, his mother and father sat beside his bed, looking haggard, tired, and worried.
And his valet, Wallace, stood across the room looking as disheveled as his parents.
“Why so glum?” he whispered because that was as loud as he could make his voice go. His throat was so parched it burned.
His mother stood, wiping his hair from his brow, and kissed his forehead. “Because we thought we were going to lose you.”
“What do you mean? The physician said I would be fine after he bandaged me up last night.”
“My dear boy,” his father said as he stood and wrapped an arm around his mother’s waist. “You have been in and out of consciousness for a fortnight.”
His mouth opened and closed. A fortnight? How was that possible? “That can’t be right.”
“It is, Samuel,” his mother said. “Your arm became infected and the infection spread. Dr. Miller almost amputated it. We insisted that he give you a few more days—thank God we did—and you woke up.” She placed her hand on his forehead.
“And your fever has broken. Wallace, please ring for broth and tea. We need to get Samuel well and strong again.”
After his valet, Wallace, spoke to the maid who came to the door, he helped him sit up in bed, stacking pillows between his back and the headboard.
A short time later, a tray arrived. After Samuel drank some of the salty beef broth and tea, his eyelids drooped.
He struggled to keep them open. “I think I’d like to rest.”
Wallace helped him to lie down. Samuel took a deep breath, his lungs rattling as he sighed with relief at lying down again. Sitting required more energy than he had, and he closed his eyes, picturing Clarice’s lovely face, smiling at him as he fell asleep.
The next time he opened his eyes, he struggled to breathe. It felt as if a large dog sat on his chest.
“Try to relax and breathe, Samuel. Your father has summoned Dr. Miller. He should arrive any moment.”
“It hurts to breathe,” he whispered, which then turned into a wheezing, coughing fit that hurt like bloody hell. Wallace put two more pillows beneath his head, propping him up, which did help with his breathing.
Samuel knew the doctor had come and gone, examining him, but he was too weak to pay attention. All he knew was that he was given vile-tasting medicine, which made the room spin and his body and eyes shut down.
*
“What happened?” Samuel whispered into his room, not even knowing if anyone was there to hear him. “Why do I feel as though I was run over by both the horse and the carriage?”
His mother’s worried, haggard face came into view. It looked as though she had aged years. “Because you have been very sick. The infection in your arm spread to your lungs.”
“How long have I been out?”
“A fortnight for the infection in your arm and another for your lungs. A month total.” She touched his face and chest, feeling for his heartbeat. “Your lungs finally sound clear. How do you feel?”
“Terrible. Will I ever feel normal again?”
His mother’s look was hopeful. “We will hire the best physician to come and stay here until you are back on your feet and back to the healthy man you were.”
Samuel heard his mother’s words, but knowing how he felt and how much effort and concentration it took to move his arm, never mind his entire body, he wasn’t sure if he believed he would ever recover.
But true to her word, his mother immediately hired a young doctor—who used unconventional practices on him—and three months later, Samuel was nearly back to his pre-gunshot wound strength and activities.
He inquired several times about Clarice, but his father and mother would ignore him and immediately change the topic every time.
Finally, after an invigorating ride on his horse, Smokey, he had had enough of them tiptoeing around the subject of Clarice, and he burst into his father’s study and demanded, “Tell me about Clarice. I’m not leaving this room until you do. ”
His father sighed, went to the sideboard, and poured two glasses of brandy.
After handing Samuel his, his father sat back down behind his desk and downed his drink in one gulp.
“Mind you, I haven’t heard directly from her father, but I did get a letter from your Uncle David.
Portsmouth married Clarice to the Marquess of Chesterfield nearly three months ago. ”
The pain lancing his chest and the tears clogging his throat made him wish he had never asked.
He’d always known she would be married by now, but hearing it made it real.
He could no longer pretend they would wed.
That it wasn’t too late to run off to Gretna Green.
If he was suffering so, how much worse must it be for Clarice?
He covered his mouth to stifle nervous laughter.
His beautiful, sweet, and caring Clarice was married to an old man.
An old man rumored to be a vile individual.
The marquess wasn’t good enough to wipe Clarice’s shoes soiled with horse dung.
And to think she was married to him? That she had to perform her wifely duties and bed such a beast.
“Bloody hell,” Samuel said as he drained his glass. His arm slumped over the armrest, the glass slipped from his fingers, dropping onto the carpet with a thud, while his other hand pulled at his hair. “How could her father marry her to such a man?” he groaned.
“I don’t know, son,” his father said, staring into his empty glass. “Let’s hope he doesn’t live long and Clarice becomes a widow very, very soon.”
“Yes,” Samuel breathed. “Soon.”