Chapter 4 #2
Mercy swept in, her silk morning gown whispering across the tiled floor. “Emma! What has happened? You look like you’ve wrestled a badger and lost.” Her tone was flippant, but her green eyes were sharp with genuine concern as she took in Emma’s pallid face and the unnatural angle of her arm.
Before Emma could formulate a retort, another figure appeared in the doorway, moving with a quiet authority that silenced the room.
The Duchesse.
Amélie took in the scene with a single, sweeping glance—Emma slumped between the two men, Mercy hovering, the general air of panicked disarray.
Her expression remained serene, but a deep concern bloomed in her dark eyes.
As she moved toward them, the frantic energy in the room seemed to calm, subdued by her deliberate grace.
Emma’s pain, which had been the screaming focal point of her existence, momentarily receded to an urgent throbbing. It was resisted by an overwhelming awareness of the woman approaching. Amélie’s scent, something subtle and warm like sandalwood and amber, reached her first.
“Sit her here,” Amélie commanded softly, her voice a low melody that cut through Emmett’s panicked fussing. She gestured to a large wicker chaise.
Bainbridge and Emmett lowered her carefully onto the cushions.
Amélie knelt before her, her voluminous silk skirts pooling on the floor.
She did not touch her, not yet. She simply looked at her, her gaze so full of focused compassion that Emma felt the hot sting of tears threaten behind her eyes.
To be seen this way, so thoroughly and without judgment, was more intimate than any touch.
Just then, a man with a determined stride and a worn leather bag entered the room. Dr. Titus Conleith, Nora’s husband. He had lovely dark hair shot through with strands of silver, and the tired, intelligent eyes of a man who had seen too much suffering to be impressed by this minor domestic drama.
He gave a curt nod. “Lord Bainbridge sent for me. Everyone out, please. I need space to work and the patient deserves her dignity.” His gaze fell on the duchesse and then on Prudence, who had materialized silently in the doorway. “You two may stay for the sake of propriety.”
Emmett hesitated, his face fraught with worry. “But—”
“Out, Lord Cresthaven,” the doctor said, not unkindly. “She is in good hands.”
Amélie met Emmett’s gaze and gave a small, reassuring nod. It was enough. The men, including Lord Bainbridge, retreated, closing the doors behind them and leaving Emma in a suddenly quiet room with the three of them.
Dr. Conleith was all business. He gently cut away the sleeve of her riding habit, his movements efficient and impersonal. His fingers, cool and clinical, probed the swollen joint. Emma flinched, biting her lip against a fresh surge of pain.
“Dislocated, indeed,” he confirmed, his tone matter-of-fact. “It’s better than broken, but there’s no clean way to do this, Miss Goode. I’ll need to set it immediately. It will be unpleasant. If we were at hospital, I’d have a drought for you or a pain tonic, but we don’t have the luxury of time.”
A cold dread washed over Emma as she clenched her teeth and nodded.
Amélie moved. She shifted from her kneeling position to sit on the edge of the chaise, taking Emma’s good left hand in both of her own. Her skin was warm, her grip firm and reassuring.
“Squeeze as hard as you need,” she whispered, her French accent thickening with emotion, making the words a soft, private promise.
Emma’s fingers tightened around hers, clinging to the contact as the doctor positioned himself. He placed one hand on her shoulder, the other gripping her arm.
“On three,” he said. “One…two…”
He did not wait for three.
With a sudden, violent wrench, he pulled and twisted.
Bone grated against bone. The sound was obscene, a sickening crunch that filled her head as a nova of pain exploded behind her eyes.
A cry was torn from her, raw and animalistic, a sound she didn’t recognize as her own.
The world went white, then black, and she knew nothing but the agony and the grounding, unbreakable pressure of Amélie’s hand in hers.
Then, as quickly as it began, it was over. A dull, profound ache replaced the sharp, tearing fire. Her head fell back against the cushions, her breath coming in ragged, shuddering gasps.
“There,” the doctor said, his voice seeming to come from a great distance. “The worst is done.”
Through the hazy fog of pain, Emma felt a cool cloth on her forehead, smelled the calming scent of lavender.
The duchesse, Amélie, was dabbing at the sweat on her temples, her expression a mixture of fierce concentration and infinite tenderness.
Prudence was suddenly there with a glass of water, holding it to her lips.
The doctor worked quickly, binding her arm securely to her side with a clean linen sling, his instructions a low murmur in the background.
But Emma heard none of it. Her entire being was focused on Amélie, who did not leave her side.
She smoothed Emma’s hair, her touch impossibly gentle.
She adjusted the cushions behind her back.
She spoiled her with a quiet, ceaseless attention that was utterly foreign.
Emma had always been the tough one.
When Rosaline had fallen from the apple tree, it was Emma who had carried her inside.
When Emmett had been tormented by bullies, it was Emma who had taught him how to throw a rock, and later, a punch.
She was the sturdy, unbending spine of the younger Goode siblings, the one who absorbed the blows, the one who never needed coddling.
And yet, here, in the warm orbit of this French duchesse, she felt her own strength dissolving.
She felt a deep, unfamiliar yearning to be cared for, to be tended to, to surrender the exhausting weight of her own resilience.
Lying there, broken and bound, she leaned her head slightly toward Amélie’s ministering hands, a small, involuntary gesture of surrender.
This, she thought with a terrifying clarity that cut through the pain.
This quiet, steady care, this unwavering presence… This felt like home.
And that feeling was increasingly dangerous to her heart.