Chapter 2 #2
“And you are infuriating.” Mr. Willmott waddled back to the sideboard and flicked his hand at the footman. “Show McGwen out now, if you please, while I finish my breakfast in peace—”
“And Meg?” Tom shoved aside the servant and circled before the fat, wig-headed fool. He clenched his fists. The steaming scents of eggs, liver, and ginger plummeted his stomach with nausea. “What are we to do about Meg?”
“What I told you yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that.” The man’s cheeks mottled. “If you wish to continue this wrathful search of the land, so be it. I shall not prevent you. If it were my wife missing, or one of my daughters, perhaps I would do the same.”
“We cannae do nothing.”
“Thunder and turf, we have not done nothing.” Mr. Willmott blew out air.
“I have had the constable scouring for witnesses three days straight, a description of Miss Foxcroft is to be printed in the next evening newspaper, and I have sent letters to nearby parishes with requests they notify here if she is discovered.” He grabbed the navy lapels of his coat, frustration scraping at his voice.
“The rest, I fear, is in the hands of God.”
Tom’s insides writhed. “I cannae accept that.”
“For which I pity you.”
“I want the name of the ratcatcher.”
“Were you of sounder mind of late, I would give it to you.” Mr. Willmott motioned to the door. “Go home, McGwen. I have heard enough accounts to know you have not slept, and I think even you shall agree the best you can do for Miss Foxcroft now is to prevent your own demise.”
Tom breathed a laugh. He wasn’t certain why. Maybe the exhaustion, the light fever at his brow, the restless jittering of his legs all seeped at his sanity and made Mr. Willmott right.
Perhaps he wasn’t of sound mind. Perhaps he never would be again until he found her.
And that was just what he was going to do.
He would not stop or eat or breathe or rest until he did.
She had to run.
The need to rip back the silk, rose-colored bed curtains, shove everyone away, and escape back to the elm tree was overpowering. Sometimes, the wrinkle-faced maid soothed a cool, damp cloth across her forehead.
Other times, a gangly young man—Dr. Bagot, they called him—poured reddish-brown liquid into honey and slipped it to her lips. The taste was bitter. Gagging. She attempted to push his hand away, but every time, someone stronger held her back.
The man from the elm.
Why was he always next to her? Through the fading of gold to blue to black again out the bedchamber window. Through the doctor’s probing. The groggy dimness after her medicine, and the newfound terror every time she awoke in this unfamiliar room.
Even now, in her half-witted plan to lunge from the bed and flee toward the door, his warm fingers kept her still. She squeezed. He squeezed back.
“Are you hungry?” For two days, he had been asking her questions. Was she comfortable? Did she require more pillows? A glass of water? The draperies open or closed?
She nodded or shook her head, but never used her voice.
She was not certain why.
Perhaps because she was afraid if she spoke, he would ask more than she could answer. Everything was still too shadowed. A result of the medicine, she was certain—or the pain wracking her skull.
“You may go and rest, Miss Russel. I shall sit with her.”
The elderly maid, with her tight gray curls and mobcap, nodded and departed the room. Silence echoed in her wake, save for birds chirping outside the window, and the stranger’s chair creaking as he leaned closer over her four-poster bed.
“Now.” His eyes smiled. She was struck by the faintness, the lightness, of their color—like a transparent cloud over a clear blue sky. “Shall I order something prepared for you? Broth can only satisfy for so many days before the undeniable need for sustenance begins to cry.”
She wanted him here more than she wanted food.
That was insane.
She was as ridiculous and frightened as a child, but she could not even pry her fingers away from his. Why was she here? Why was she injured? Why was no one sitting beside her—except a stranger?
“Perhaps a book then.” He nodded, as if that were just the cure she required. “Sometimes, literature is to the spirit what food is to the flesh. I shall be but a moment—”
“No.” She clenched his hand tighter when he stood, the single syllable burning her throat. “Please … stay.”
If he were astonished or pleased that she spoke, he showed no signs.
He returned to his chair and drew it closer still.
“Very well, then. If you like, I shall merely sit with you. The doctor says you are much improved, and the fever no longer plagues you. I imagine your strength shall be soon in following.”
She should say something. He deserved her gratitude—whoever he was—for bestowing such kindness and ministrations to a stranger.
But she only stared at him. Questions assaulted her, too many to sort.
“I am Benedict Cunningham.” As if he heard her thoughts. “Lord Cunningham, in proper address. And you, my dear girl, are a most-welcomed guest at Penrose Abbey.”
“How did I …” She hesitated. Her heart sped. “How did I come to be here?”
“I was hoping you might tell me.” When she didn’t answer, he smiled. “I imagine it is a grave tale indeed. One you are likely not recovered enough to endure. Perhaps it would behoove us to discuss more congenial matters for the day. Your name perhaps.”
Sweat dampened the bandage about her head. She opened her lips.
Nothing.
Except the pink pinafore rippling back and forth, the petals falling, then the window all over again. Laughing in her ear. Strong arms hugging her from behind. “Look at the ducks.” Swaying bluebells and gooseberry bushes and bright yellow cornflowers. “See the ducks, Meggie?”
“Meggie.” She echoed the word from her dream. Then, quieter, “Meg.”
“Short for Margaret, I presume?”
“I do not know.”
He laughed, as if she were teasing him.
She wasn’t.
“Very good then, Miss Margaret …” He quirked a brow in waiting. “You must supply me a surname, I fear, as it would set gossiping tongues wagging if I were to call you anything less.”
The ducks. The pinafore. The window. She scratched through the memory, tearing it apart, rummaging through what little she had. Meggie. Meg. Why could she not remember?
She knew her name.
Her own name.
She must.
Meggie. Meg.
Tears escaped the corners of her eyes, hot and streaming. Everything hurt. Her head. Her heart. She was empty, hollow, like a book ripped of all its pages. Dear God, please help me.
But the prayer remained unanswered, and when she finally glanced back into Lord Cunningham’s confused eyes, a sob shuddered out of her. “I do not know.”