Chapter 31
Anne would lose her mind if she had to lie in bed one more hour. Joan and Mattie had helped her bathe and dress. A doctor arrived and tended to her injured ankle. After reassuring her it was merely sprained and not broken, he wrapped it tightly and prescribed laudanum for the pain.
“Do you have any willow bark?” she asked.
To which the physician hitched his gray eyebrows to his hairline and called it nonsense if not witchcraft.
She pushed the bottle of laudanum aside. “Willow bark tea is what Harry prescribes.”
The man scrunched up his face in distaste. “And who, pray tell, is Harry? Some villager from Kent, no doubt.”
A wicked grin curved her lips. “You could say that. He is from Kent. Dr. Harry Radcliffe, but you might know him as the Duke of Ashton. You may have heard of his Hope Clinic in London.”
The doctor snapped both his mouth and his bag shut. “I shall address this with your husband as he is the one who called me. Stay off that foot as much as possible for two weeks and use a cane or crutch for support.”
He left in a huff, and Anne wasn’t sorry to see him go.
Sharp pain radiated from her ankle up her leg each time she moved or had to rise to use the chamber pot, and she eyed the bottle of laudanum taunting her on the bedside table.
Joan remained at Anne’s bedside. Miss Hart brought Cassie and Ellie in, each holding a puppy for Anne’s inspection. Miss Hart cautioned the girls not to get on the bed and jostle Anne. Even Alan peeked in to enquire how she was feeling.
Other than Greene and Mrs. Campbell, it seemed the whole household came in to ask about her comfort. And truth be told, if those two had come in, she would have found something to throw at their heads.
The one person absent was the one person she wished to see most.
Colin.
When Mattie and Alan brought in a late supper on trays, she’d hoped Colin would join her, but Alan said he’d taken supper earlier in his study.
He’d been so angry with her. Her Grump had returned more vehemently than she recalled.
He acted as though she’d meant to get hurt.
Anyone who knew her at all would discount that immediately.
His reprimand that she could have placed the girls in danger stung the most. If the girls had joined her, she would have shooed them out and left with them.
Didn’t he realize how much she cared for them?
And him?
Well, no, he didn’t know how she felt about him because, for one of the few times in her life, she hadn’t expressed her thoughts aloud.
She wanted to tell him, but how could she? Not when he was so angry. He was probably plotting a way to cast her aside. Would he collaborate with those two villainous servants? Send her somewhere remote as Victor Pratt’s father had done with Lady Cartwright?
Her stomach churned, and even the chocolate cake appeared unappetizing. Her fork clattered onto the plate at an even more horrific prospect. She pushed the tray away.
Could he divorce her?!
Stop being melodramatic.
“What did you say, my lady?” Mattie asked as she prepared to take the tray away.
“I. Um. Please ask my husband to come see me.”
When Mattie left, Anne rehearsed her arguments. Perhaps argument wasn’t the best way to phrase what she wanted to say, but she would fight for what they had—what she wanted to have with Colin.
She waited.
And waited.
Reminiscent of their wedding night, she stared at the clock on the mantel. Joan had prepared her for bed, and she asked again if someone had relayed her message to Colin.
Joan fluffed her pillow. “Yes, my lady. Mattie said he would see you before retiring.”
Anne frowned at the way Joan said before not when.
Shortly before ten, Colin strode through the adjoining dressing rooms and gave a slight tap at the open door to her bedchamber.
Instead of the lovely brocade banyan he wore every night before joining her, he remained dressed, although he’d removed his coat and waistcoat.
Shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows exposed his muscled forearms, and his hair appeared mussed as if he’d run his hands through it.
Troubled by his grim expression, she forced a smile and flipped back the counterpane and linens on the other side of the bed. “Join me?”
When he shook his head, her hopes dissolved, delicate as mist, and vanished before she could grasp them.
He re-tucked the covers around her. “Are you in much pain? The doctor said you refused the laudanum.”
“I asked him for willow bark to make the tea Ashton prescribes. He called Harry a witch.”
A faint smile twitched at Colin’s lips, but he refused to meet her gaze. “Can you provide instructions to make the tea if I can get the bark?”
“Yes. It’s simple. White willow is best. Pulverize the bark.”
He nodded. “And the pain?”
“I don’t like to think about it, but it’s hard not to with my ankle throbbing.”
“Perhaps a little laudanum? To help you sleep.”
Tempted, she cast another glance at the bottle on the bedside table. “I’ll try first without it. It would help if you joined me in bed.”
“No.” The refusal was so stark and curt, she drew back as if he’d slapped her.
All her rehearsed words made a hasty retreat, and in her typical fashion, she simply blurted out what weighed on her mind. “Why are you so angry? I didn’t want to get hurt.”
“But you did. And it could have been worse.”
Like a lash, his words stung. A physical blow would have hurt less.
“But it wasn’t.” She hated the pleading, defensive tone of her voice.
“I can’t discuss this with you. Get some rest, Anne. Take the laudanum.” He stormed from the room and slammed the door behind him.
Fresh pain burst forth, but not from her ankle. A dull, throbbing ache, impossible to ignore and untreatable with willow bark tea or even laudanum, radiated in her chest. She felt hollow, as if someone had reached inside and scooped out her heart.
Nothing would staunch the hurt his cold stare had delivered, and the only rest she found was fitful, brought on by crying herself to sleep.
The terror of what could have happened to Anne hovered at the edge of Colin’s mind and begged to be acknowledged. But he kept it at bay, knowing it would undo him if he gave it voice.
He gave in to the anger instead. It was wrong to take out his fear on Anne.
Logically, he knew that, but it was easier to be angry for not protecting her than to dwell on the idea that he might have lost her.
He couldn’t go through that again. Especially now.
Margery’s death had gutted him, but Anne’s? Anne’s would kill him.
Perhaps if he distanced himself, convinced himself whatever he thought he felt was an aberration, he’d dull the ache of watching someone he loved in pain and absorbing it as if it were his own.
He yanked the shirt over his head. By God, he was a grown man; he didn’t need a valet. He could undress himself. At least it gave him something to do, something to focus on besides the image of Anne, caught in that infernal passage. Hurt. Frightened. Calling for help.
And where had he been? Off pursuing his own ambitions and collecting puppies. Puppies, for God’s sake. He yanked off a boot and threw it against the wall.
“Sir?”
Colin spun around.
Fitz gaped at him.
“Close your mouth, man.” When Fitz edged toward him, obviously ready to ask if something was wrong, Colin added. “Not a word. I don’t want to hear it.”
Silently, Fitz picked up and folded Colin’s discarded clothing, then helped him pull off his other boot.
“I don’t need a shave tonight.”
Colin ignored the questions darting in Fitz’s eyes and exhaled a sigh when the man finally left him alone.
Alone. He recalled the words of the child, Indira Weatherby. You’re just a sad, lonely man.
Alone and lonely.
He tried to sleep, but closing his eyes just meant he would dream of Anne trapped in the rotted floorboards of the passage. Half-way through the night, he crept through the dressing rooms and cracked open the door to her bedchamber.
She slept, but it wasn’t a peaceful slumber. She tossed and turned, and with each movement, she gave a muffled groan of pain.
Unable to watch any longer, he closed the door and returned to his room to wait out the night.
Before daybreak, he had already dressed and gone downstairs. Servants going about their duties, stopped, prepared to wish him good morning or to ask if he required something.
He simply held up a hand and walked past them and out the door, on a mission.
Around him, the morning mist enveloped him like a hug, and a faint shimmer of light rose in the east, painting the horizon in dusky hues of blue and pink.
The sweet, fresh smell of the grass mixed with the rich earth as if promising new beginnings.
After walking about a mile, he found what he needed and pulled out the knife from his pocket, shaving the bark from a white willow. Once he’d collected plenty in his handkerchief, he secured the bundle with a loose knot.
When he arrived back at the house, Rupert greeted him and cast a glance toward Colin’s bundle. “Good morning, sir. You’re up and about early. What do you have there?”
A bit of success had lifted Colin’s spirits—slightly. He opened the bundle for Rupert’s inspection. “Willow bark. Have you ever heard of making a tea from it for pain?”
The man’s face brightened. “I have, sir.” He drew closer and peered down at the shreds of wood lying in the handkerchief. “Is that for her ladyship? You’ll need to crush that up. I have something for that.” He held out his hand. “Would you like me to do it for you?”
Colin handed it over to Rupert’s capable hands. “Thank you. If you could prepare it as soon as possible and bring it to the house, I would appreciate it.”
Rupert nodded. “We are all terribly sorry to hear about her ladyship’s injury.”
With a quick word of thanks, Colin left the man to his duties.
By the time he returned, the house bustled with activity as servants went about their morning tasks. Smells of sausage and, thank God, coffee enticed him as he passed the breakfast room, and his stomach rumbled. At the sideboard, Alan stood at attention.
“Has anyone taken a tray up to my wife?” Colin asked as he prepared a plate.
“Not yet, my lord. If I may be so bold, how is my lady faring?”
Shame soured his stomach that he couldn’t answer honestly. “I believe she had a fitful night.” Poised to pour himself a cup of coffee, he had a delightful idea. Something that would help him begin to make amends or at least soften the situation between him and Anne.
“Have Cook prepare some hot chocolate and bring it here. I will take a tray up to my wife.”
Alan nodded and rushed off, no doubt hearing the urgency in Colin’s request.
While he waited, Colin ate quickly, not even finishing when Alan returned with the pot of hot chocolate, then prepared a tray of Anne’s favorites.
Resisting the surge of pride that he indeed remembered her favorites, he plucked a velvety rose from a flower arrangement on the sideboard and laid it on the tray.
At Anne’s door, he paused, unsure how to knock while holding the tray. He tapped the toe of his boot against the wood. Then he balanced the tray along one arm and quickly turned the knob. How do the servants manage this?
Grateful he hadn’t dropped the whole thing on the floor, he peeked into the darkened room.
On the bed, Anne snored softly.
He couldn’t help but smile as he remembered how she argued with him, saying she most definitely did not snore. After placing the tray on her bedside table, he pulled back the curtains.
Morning sun streamed in, casting a glow on Anne’s sleeping form. Her eyes squeezed in protest at the intrusion. She gave a pitiful moan, then stretched and rubbed the sleep from her face. “Is it morning, Joan? What is that delicious smell?”
“Hot chocolate and breakfast.”
At his voice, she blinked and turned toward him. “Colin. I thought you were Joan.”
“Obviously.” He poured her a cup of hot chocolate. Wisps of steam curled above the cup. “Here. Sip. Careful. It’s hot.”
She gazed up at him, and his heart lurched at the dark smudges under her eyes. “Of course it is. That’s why it’s called hot chocolate.” The smile she attempted turned into a grimace as she pushed herself up to a sitting position.
“Still painful?”
She glared at him over her cup as if he were an imbecile, which he very much felt like.
He watched her every movement as she blew the hot liquid to cool it and then sipped. Her eyes closed in pleasure, the expression not unlike the one he witnessed when they made love.
“I found some willow bark for your pain. Rupert, the groundskeeper, is preparing it now. But first, before it grows cold, breakfast.” He took the cup from her hand and replaced it with the tray, then took a seat in the chair by the bed.
Attentive to her needs, he handed the chocolate to her when she asked and watched as she devoured every morsel of her breakfast.
They both turned at the soft knock on the door where Mattie stood with a tray holding a teapot and another cup. “Rupert took the liberty of telling Cook how to prepare this, my lord.”
“Did she put honey in it?” Anne asked.
“I’m not sure, my lady.”
However, when she took a sip, her expression provided the answer.
Colin rose and bit back the chuckle at Anne’s scrunched up nose. “I’ll get the honey.”
“Sir,” Mattie said. “I can go.”
Colin shook his head. Sitting by Anne’s bedside and seeing her wince in pain only made his guilt from not protecting her harder to bear. He not only needed some distance, but he needed to do something for her. “Stay with my wife.”
At the door, he only stopped a moment when Anne said, “Colin. Thank you.”
If only he deserved it.