Chapter 28
“It is her favorite.” Theodore gestured to the book he was holding in his hand.
He was standing in the eastern drawing room with Phoebe. His niece arched an eyebrow at him, her nose wrinkled in distaste with her arms folded across her chest.
For the last two days, he and Phoebe had been hard at work putting her plan into action. Theodore had pulled himself out of the black sinkhole he had been living in, bathed, shaved and dressed.
The pain in his chest had not lessened, but now there was something else within him too. It felt like he was a steam engine and this plan to get Harriet back was the coal the engineer was feeding him. It consumed every waking hour, when he slept, he dreamt of it.
“It’s boring.” Phoebe shook her head.
He looked at the book in his hand. It was Shakespeare’s Much Ado about nothing. His thumb stroked the lettering of the cover. It was faded as though someone had done it many times before him. He had found so many of Harriet’s sketches in books of Shakespeare’s sonnets and plays.
She had a perpetual stack of books by her bedside. Some were books of poetry, some were novels, others were plays. But always Shakespeare was among them.
I should get some of these rebound for her.
Theodore traced his hands across the pile of books and their battered covers.
He could imagine Harriet sitting in a window, sunlight shining over her face, knees tucked towards her chest as she lost herself in the world she was reading. How often did I see her do that?
“I will admit, the bard is rather difficult to read. His plays are meant to be performed and that is when they are at their best.” Theodore idly leafed through the pages, trying to find a good bit to read for his niece.
Theodore saw several scribbles in Harriet’s handwriting across the pages. His fingers traced the elegant curve of her writing.
Flaws not perfection.
Three words – he could hear Harriet’s voice saying them as his eyes drifted across the page. He felt a tug on his sleeve and realized that Phoebe was trying to get his attention.
Hastily, he snapped the play shut. “But perhaps you are right, it may be better to start with a different book. What do you think of this one?”
He held up a book of Byron’s poems and Phoebe stroked her chin. Then she nodded and reached for it, carefully placing it on the sideboard, before looking back up at Theodore, her head tilted in a question.
He adjusted the book ever so slightly, angling it so it would stand out more. Then he picked up his stack of books, and she picked up hers, and they began to move down the hall together.
“I think you would enjoy a play,” Theodore said as they deposited another play by a fruit bowl.
Phoebe gave him a look so skeptical that he could not help but laugh. “Really, you would. The next time we are in London, I will take you to the theatre. We have a private box – if you really hate it, you can always go to sleep.”
“But I do not like London.” Phoebe frowned as she slipped a book onto one of the coffee tables in the dining room. “It is busy and big and smelly.”
“It is all those things, but there are some good things too. And when you are older, you will spend more time in the city. You will have all sorts of balls and garden parties to go to,” he pointed out as Phoebe took several books from his pile; her pile had been dispersed.
Phoebe wrinkled her nose, clearly unconvinced. Theodore shook his head and could not help but laugh.
“I suspect you will rather enjoy those things.” Theodore grinned as he helped her put a book on one of the higher shelves.
“But why do they have to be in London?” Phoebe shuddered.
“Because that is just how these things are done.” Theodore shrugged. “There are some lovely galleries and such we could go to as well. Museums and big libraries.”
Phoebe’s eyes widened. “C…could we go with Auntie?”
Theodore opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, the sound of muffled running footsteps caught his attention. He put the books he was holding down, moving instinctively between Phoebe and whoever was approaching, one hand outstretched.
Mrs. Morton was holding her skirts, panting as she ran towards them. She clutched at her side as she swept into a clumsy curtsey.
“Mrs. Morton? What is the matter?” Theodore reached towards her.
Mrs. Morton pressed the letter into his hand, her chest heaving as she leaned against a nearby table, trying to catch her breath. “The Duchess is hurt.”
Time froze and the world fell away as Theodore took a step towards the woman. “How do you know this? Where is she?”
“A messenger from Coldmere castle. She is staying with them. The Duchess fell. Hit her head, she-” Theodore did not hear the rest of Mrs. Morton’s sentence; he was sprinting past her out into the drive.
As he hoped, the messenger was still there, no doubt waiting to be dismissed. He stood beside a glossy black horse, that nickered at Theodore’s approach.
“Your Grace, I-” the messenger began but Theodore cut him off. “- your horse, how much is left in it?”
“I can get your message back to the duchess by this evening at the latest.” The messenger’s voice shone with pride. “If I ride him hard, I can be there in hours.”
“Then I will take him and my message myself.” Theodore saw the man’s eyes widen, but he did not care.
Every second felt like hours and as he adjusted the stirrups, a voice screamed in his mind that he was wasting time. He had to get to Harriet.
I will do her no good if I die on the way.
He swung himself into the saddle and threw a guinea over his shoulder. He glanced behind to see Mr. Grimsby striding towards the man, and Phoebe standing in the doorway.
“Look after her.” Theodore wheeled the horse around. “I am going to get my wife.”
The horse reared and then they were off. He rode it hard, and it seemed to sense his urgency. It was already warm from its journey to him, and he was grateful for it.
He rode like a demon loosed from hell. Wind tore at him. He cut across country, taking short cuts and cursing anyone who got in his way. His heart thundered in time with the horse’s galloping hooves.
He barely slowed as he approached the door of Coldmere castle, dropping into a trot so that he could fling himself from the horse and slam his fist against the heavy doors.
“Propriety be damned,” he swore, raising his fist to hammer at the thick door again.
It swung open and he found himself face to face with a butler. The man’s eyes went wide at the sight of Theodore, but he did not get out of his way.
“May I ask who is calling?” the man questioned with affronted dignity, bearing up against Theodore.
In other circumstances, Theodore might have been impressed. But in that moment, the man was an obstacle. He needed to find Harriet.
“I believe it is the Duke of Irondale.” A voice said from behind the butler and the Duke of Coldmere stood before Theodore. “I see my wife’s message was delivered. And it would appear I owe her a guinea.”
Theodore did not have time to ponder at the man’s words. He took a step towards him. “Where is she? Where is Harriet?”
“She is in the guest bedroom. I will show you the way.” The Duke turned on his heel and Theodore followed him.
The only thing that stopped Theodore from sprinting past the Duke was that he knew he would be lost without the other man’s guidance. Coldmere Castle was a maze of corridors, and he could not afford a second’s delay.
They reached a large wooden door, and Theodore found himself face-to-face with the Duchess of Coldmere, Lady Fiona, and Lady Louisa. All were watching him like hawks.
“I want to see Harriet.” Theodore would fight the women if he had to.
The three exchanged a look and Theodore stiffened.
“She is resting,” Lady Fiona said.
“I have to see her.”
Duchess Catherine put a hand on her friend’s arm. “Let him in, Fi.”
“Fine,” Lady Fiona grumbled. “But we will be just outside.”
Theodore nodded, flung open the door, and strode in. The room was not as ornate as he expected. There was no antechamber, just a large four poster bed in the center, with several chairs scattered around it.
His feet glued themselves to the ground as his eyes found Harriet. She looked so small, lying in the center of the bed with a bandage wrapped around her head. Her eyes were closed and for a moment, he feared she was dead. Then he saw the rise and fall of her chest beneath the bedclothes.
She is alive. He moved closer, relief trying to punch through the terror that gripped him with a hand of iron. His eyes searched her body, looking for any other sign of injury.
Her pale hands clutched the bedclothes, the skin unbroken. He could not see her legs, but if they had been injured, he suspected they would not be beneath the covers.
He did not want to wake her, but he could not help but move closer. There was a small smile on her face, that fueled the guilt welling within his heart. He took another step.
Her eyes opened and he froze. She turned to face him, and the warmth was sucked from the room as her smile disappeared.
“Theodore.” It was not a question.
He had never seen her like this before. She was frosty, cool and detached. His eyes went to her head, and then back to her. He licked his lips, his mind struggling to think of something to say.
She is alive. She is alive!
It echoed through his mind, but it did nothing to relieve the fear holding him in place.
“You have leaves in your hair.” Harriet’s lips pursed.
He plucked them from his hair, still not taking his eyes from her. A part of him feared that if he did, she would disappear. He stepped closer to her. “I came as quickly as I could.”
His voice was hoarse, his words strangled by the rush of blood through his body. Harriet’s eyes narrowed. “Why? What are you doing here?” Her voice sounded so unlike her that for a moment, he struggled to understand the words.
Theodore blinked, feet moving of their own accord. “You are hurt.”
Harriet’s hands went to her bandage almost absently. “How did you know I was here?”
Theodore swallowed. “The Duchess. She sent a messenger.”