Chapter 6
Emmeline shielded her eyes from the midday sun, shining in a clear blue sky.
The heels of her shoes dug into the fine sand of the beach—the same beach near her cousin’s place, where she’d found the pendant.
A light breeze blew, swaying tufts of long green grass and curling the ocean surface.
A seagull cried above and sailed west, where the coastline rose into cliffs.
It made no sense.
She took a fistful of sand, watching it run through her fingers. The grating against her skin felt real; the wind and the warmth on her face felt real; everything felt too real to be a dream—and yet, it had to be.
But where had reality ended, and the dream begun? Had she lock-picked her way out of her cabin? The passage, surely, was already a part of the dream.
No use thinking about it now. She was here. Although, as locations went, a bit of a boring pick. She’d need to have a talk with herself when she woke up.
Unless the idea was to finally sneak into that pub dance. Hmm. Perhaps not such a bad location after all.
She turned in a circle, looking for the familiar path that led off the beach, but there were only the slight dunes and the grass. Thanks, dream. She’d head in the general direction, then—
A heap of dark clothing lying on the sand farther down the beach caught her eye. She approached it, breaking into a run when she realized the lump was a person, unmoving, lying on their stomach like a discarded ragdoll.
“Hello?” She dropped to her knees, the momentum almost sending her tumbling onto the man.
Sand clung to his dark hair and wet clothes—dirtied white pants and a cutaway coat with brass buttons.
The coat might have been a dark blue once, but was now caked in dirt, mud, and strange, dark brown stains.
He didn’t respond. Emmeline glanced at the water and back to him.
Was he brought in by the sea?
She turned him over and gasped.
Leon.
“No, no, no!” She grabbed him by the frayed collar of his coat. “Leon! Leon, say something!”
A cascade of thoughts unleashed in her head. Why was he here, in her dreams? Why was he wearing a threadbare uniform? What happened to him? But none of it mattered at the moment because Leon …
Leon looked dead.
His skin was pale, lips tinted blue, and as she laid her hands on his chest, it didn’t rise. She glanced around in panic, but found no help and no answers. Her heart beat so fast. If only she could give him half of those heartbeats to bring the color back into his cheeks.
Think. Her mind flashed back to months ago, when they were still at home, preparing for the voyage to England. As she and Mother were picking what clothes to take with them, Brendon walked from room to room, reciting safety precautions from an old science book to anyone who would listen.
“Resuscitation methods,” he announced. “First off, stimulate the heart. For this, you might be required to maneuver the body into several positions and have a clear path to the person’s chest—”
“Brendon,” Mother admonished.
“Additionally, for drowning victims, mouth-to-mouth resuscitation—”
Emmeline grabbed Leon’s coat and, with some maneuvering, got it off him and tossed it aside.
That left him in a worn-out shirt, plastered to his body—a strange style that opened only halfway down his chest. She didn’t know how to position him, but laying him on his back seemed good enough.
She rose on her knees, folded her hands above his heart, and pressed hard.
Nothing.
“Come on.” Was trying to convince herself, or him? She repeated the motion, again and again and again, and somewhere during her futile attempts, all thoughts of this being a dream disappeared. The only thing that mattered was saving him.
“For drowning victims, mouth-to-mouth resuscitation—”
She held his chin, leaning his head back. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “This isn’t how I imagined it would happen.” And she covered his mouth with hers.
He’s so cold. She blew in, gently at first; retreated to take in more air herself, then gave it to him. Wake up. Please, wake up.
One more breath into his mouth, and his chest lifted.
She wanted scream from joy, but instead, she continued blowing him more air with renewed zeal. Come on, you’re almost there—
He coughed, and Emmeline jumped away in time for him to lean to the side and spew out water.
“Leon!” She turned him to her. He was alive, but his eyes remained closed, and as she called him again, he gave no sign of hearing her.
“It’s all right. Everything is going to be all right.” She brushed his cheek, leaving a red trail behind.
Emmeline turned her palm toward her, swallowing a panicked scream. Her hand was bloody. When did she—how did she—she didn’t even feel—
A crimson patch spread beneath a bandage on Leon’s shoulder, hidden under the shirt. Those strange, dark brown stains on his coat fell into place. He was wounded, and she must’ve accidentally pressed on it during her resuscitation.
What on Earth had happened to him?
One thing was for sure—this was beyond her skills. He needed help.
“I’ll be right back.” She brushed his jaw. “Can you hear me? I’ll go get help. I’ll be right back, I promise. Don’t go anywhere.”
Stupid. Where is he going to go?
She took off running in the direction where the path used to be, toward Cousin Reggie’s house. But before she reached it, a gravel road came into view, and a carriage driving along it.
Emmeline ran down the slight slope, screaming and waving her arms. For once, she was happy carriages were still prevalent to automobiles in England—she’d have a higher chance of catching it. The carriage stopped, and a driver hopped off the front bench.
“Thank God.” Emmeline panted, stopping and putting her hands on her knees.
“What seems to be the matter, miss?” The man wore a black top hat and a strangely dramatic, multi-caped overcoat.
“A man on the beach. He’s wounded. He needs help.”
“Show me,” the driver responded and, without further delay, followed her with long strides.
They found Leon as she’d left him. The driver lifted him up and carried him to the carriage, where he instructed Emmeline to put a blanket over the plush bench inside. With joined effort, they carefully lowered Leon onto it.
“Where to, miss?” the driver asked.
“To the family nearby. The master is my mother’s cousin. It’s a grand mansion, but I’m not sure which direction from here—”
“Do not worry. I know it. I was on my way to them.”
“Really?” A heavy weight lifted off her chest. She had no idea what this man with an old-fashioned carriage would want of Cousin Reggie—sell him the vehicle as an antique, perhaps?—but at least she had some reassurance.
“I’ll stay with him.” As she settled on the bench across from Leon, the carriage sprung into motion.
For the duration of the short drive, Emmeline paid no attention to the world outside, keeping her eyes on Leon’s still form and wringing her hands. It wasn’t until the carriage stopped and the driver opened the door that she first beheld their destination.
The mansion was similar to Cousin Reggie’s, but it wasn’t his.
Although far grander, it still featured a limestone facade and white stucco decorations.
A set of pillars at the main entrance ran up two stories to the triangular pediment.
The house’s perfect symmetry was only marred by a rebellious ivy plant, climbing along one corner; it gave it a charming look, if one could call a manor of such proportions ‘charming.’
Two servants, returning to the back of the house, stopped to observe the visitors. Emmeline waved at them. “Help! We need help, please!”
One of the servants, a rotund lady in her forties, approached. “What is it, miss?”
“My friend is injured.”
The woman looked inside the carriage, eyes sweeping over Leon. “Oh, dear. Amy! Go fetch Nathan and tell Mrs. Atkins to get ready; we’ll need her.”
Amy disappeared behind the corner. After a few minutes, a male servant arrived, and between him and the driver, they maneuvered Leon toward the servants’ entrance and down the hallway into a small, bare room with a narrow bed.
More servants emerged from other doors, like moles popping out of the ground, curious what the ruckus was all about, but the portly woman shooed them back to their errands.
Emmeline bit down on her fist. She felt so useless, but she didn’t know what else to do. As she stood by the foot of the bed, another woman in a high-waisted gray dress and a simple linen shawl walked into the room, carrying a small trunk with several jars, tin cans, and bandages.
“I see,” she said matter-of-factly, as her eyes landed on Leon, then looked to Emmeline.
“Not a lovers’ quarrel, I hope?” The remark was cheeky, rather than accusatory.
“Give me some room, please. You too, Amy.” She nudged the younger servant girl aside, deposited the trunk by the bed, and leaned over to inspect Leon’s shoulder.
Emmeline watched in a daze as the healer pried away the bloodied bandage and cleaned the wound. The woman didn’t emit a single peep or squeak in the process, even though Emmeline’s stomach nearly turned at the sight of the gnarled, crimson flesh.
“Poor boy’s been shot,” the healer murmured. “Several days ago, if the state of this wound is anything to go by. He needs a surgeon.”
“Shot?” Emmeline blurted. How?
“Her Grace will not approve of sending for a surgeon for some unknown man,” the servant lady who first approached Emmeline said. She looked at Emmeline. “Who is he?”
“He—uh—” What to tell them? That he was her friend from the ship—the ship that sailed from Southampton nearly a week ago, and now they were back here, somehow?
And where was here, exactly?
“Can I talk to the master of the house?” Her voice felt far away, as if she were only partially in charge of it.
“His Grace will not want to be bothered,” the servant lady said. “But you may be able to speak with the duchess if you wish. If this man is your acquaintance—”