Chapter 16
I f you are at all acquainted with the Tollivers, dear reader, you will know that such scenes – pistols discharging in fields and tempers flaring with the force of a summer storm – are regrettably not uncommon in their company.
Indeed, the notion that the conclusion of one chapter might proceed quietly and without incident would be nothing short of fanciful.
The pistol’s report tore through the morning stillness with the violence of a thunderclap, ringing out across the heath in a cloud of acrid smoke.
A startled pigeon exploded from a nearby tree and took flight in a panicked flurry of wings and then, all was still.
For a blessed moment, Hetty dared to believe it had been naught but noise and a fright, no harm done.
That is, until she heard Theo let out a short, rather surprised breath.
He glanced down at his side with a puzzled expression, as though trying to recall whether he had dressed improperly that morning. “Well,” he said in that maddeningly calm tone of his, “this is most unfortunate. ”
To her absolute horror – and because a Tolliver escapade would scarcely be complete without it – he collapsed.
“Theo!” Hetty’s scream tore free as she dropped the pistol. She gathered up her skirts and sprinted across the field.
“Oh dear God,” Lottie breathed, still standing stock-still in the aftermath. “Did I do that?”
“You most assuredly did!” roared Ben, snatching up the offending pistol from the ground as though it might yet do further damage. “What in the devil were you thinking, you half-witted imbecile?”
Hetty was already upon her knees beside Theo, searching his rapidly paling face for signs of consciousness.
Mr Jasper Deverell – remarkably composed for a man whose closest friend had just been shot at dawn – dropped to the ground opposite her, already tugging aside Theo’s coat to reveal a dark bloom spreading through the fabric at his side.
“Side wound,” he pronounced with an air of clinical calm that ought to have been irritating, were it not so oddly comforting.
He lifted the blood-stained fabric carefully.
“Low, beneath the ribs. Missed the stomach, by the grace of God. Might be clean through, if fortune favours us.”
“Fortune?” Hetty echoed, her voice rising. “He is bleeding like a slaughtered pig in a butcher’s yard!”
Theo opened his eyes and blinked up at her through lashes far too long for a man in such a state. “I daresay I was bleeding just as profusely when I cut myself shaving last week,” he said quietly, “No one wept into their handkerchief over that.”
“Oh, thank Heavens you are alive,” she breathed, though the relief in her voice was swiftly overtaken by fury. “But do not – do not – jest, you absolute fool!” Her voice cracked, and she pressed a hand to his side, heedless of the blood that soaked through her gloves. “You are wounded badly, Theo.”
“I am charming,” he murmured with a lop-sided smile.
“You are a fool.”
“Where, in the name of all that is sacred,” Jasper interjected, looking about, “is the blasted physician?”
“Behind the hedge.” Cousin Horatio, pale as milk, lifted a trembling hand. “I rather believe he swooned the moment the pistol discharged.”
Jasper swore softly and yanked his cravat loose, pressing it firmly against the wound. “We are surrounded by invalids and dramatists. And not one useful in a crisis.”
“I swear,” Hetty whispered, brushing back Theo’s sweat-damp curls, “upon all that is holy and respectable, no member of this family is ever again to be permitted within ten paces of a firearm.”
“I second that motion,” Theo murmured, his voice quiet but still far too composed for a man lying in his own blood. “Also, if someone might write to my tailor… do tell him I have disgraced his finest coat. He shall want to grieve in private.”
“You are a complete fool,” Hetty said thickly.
“You’ve mentioned that,” he murmured. “Twice, I believe.”
She could hardly bear to look at him. His was face drawn, his lips pinched from pain, his waistcoat sodden and scarlet – and still, he managed to look up at her as though she were the dawn itself, and he a man blessed enough to witness it one final time.
(You must forgive me, dear reader, for any theatrical flourish – I assure you, our hero is indeed lying in blood, but this is not a tragedy, and I daresay you will enjoy the ending quite thoroughly.)
Behind them, Lottie remained frozen in place with mouth parted in abject horror. “I didn’t mean to,” she whispered. “Truly, I didn’t. Oh Lord. Am I to marry him now?”
“You most certainly are not,” Hetty snapped, her eyes never leaving Theo’s pale face.
“Thank God,” Theo muttered. “No offence, Miss Charlotte.”
“None taken,” Lottie returned, visibly relieved. “You are far too old for me in any case.”
“I’m two-and-twenty,” he protested weakly.
“Precisely,” she said with a wrinkle of her nose. “Practically ancient.”
Theo gave a faint groan. “Someone lift me up, I beg of you, before I expire from insult as well as injury.”
“I shall fetch the carriage,” Jasper said as he stood. “Tolliver, you may assist – if you vow not to deposit him in a ditch out of familial vengeance.”
Ben gave a tight nod and turned on his heel to follow. Cousin Horatio trailed in their wake, muttering to himself about honour and the moral hazards of recreation weaponry.
Lottie, meanwhile, strolled towards the hedge and the insensible physician, who remained prostrate and utterly useless. She prodded his leg with the toe of her boot and said, with more curiosity than concern, “Are you quite dead, sir? Or merely overwhelmed?”
The physician gave a groan and flapped one hand feebly .
That left Hetty quite alone beside Theo, kneeling in the damp grass with no thought for propriety or posture, the hem of her gown utterly soaked with morning dew and her gloves stained through with his blood.
Theo moved his hand with visible effort until his fingers found hers and curled weakly around them. “Well,” he said faintly, “this has taken a rather exciting turn.”
“You have made a dreadful mess of things.”
He gave a wheezing sound that might’ve been a laugh, or perhaps merely the exhalation of a punctured lung. “I have made the mess? My dearest Miss Tolliver, if you had simply agreed to marry Lord Wetherby last Season as your mother so desperately hoped, none of this would have occurred.”
“I should sooner wed a damp sponge in a cravat.”
“Wetherby is very nearly that,” Theo murmured, “only with a title and a most unfortunate mole.”
Hetty pressed her lips together to keep from smiling.
“You ought to write a pamphlet,” he continued, voice pained and yet still far too playful for a man bleeding in a meadow. “A Most Dreadful Guide to Ruin, by Miss H. Tolliver. Subtitled: H ow to Orchestrate a Duel, Scandalise One’s Entire Family, and Accidentally Shoot an Earl.”
“Oh, do be quiet.”
“I would,” he said, eyes twinkling despite the discomfort, “but it is terribly difficult to hold one’s tongue when the lady in question looks so tragically beautiful in the mist. Like a statue in mourning. Or perhaps a governess on the verge of collapse.”
“That line must work wonders in drawing rooms. ”
“It has yet to be tested in a duel recovery scene, I admit. I do find it promising”
Hetty looked down at their joined hands – his fingers pale against her bloodied glove – and then back at him. “If you die, I shall never forgive you.”
He grinned at that, reckless and boyish and infuriatingly handsome, and it made her want to kiss him and throttle him in equal measure. “Entirely fair.”
Hetty exhaled through her nose and pressed his hand tighter in hers.
“And for the record,” Theo murmured, “if this is to be my end – bleeding in a field, surrounded by Tollivers – I cannot say I am surprised. I always suspected your family would be the death of me.”
“Do not jest,” she said, her voice quieter now.
“I am not jesting,” he replied, closing his eyes. “Merely… profoundly resigned.”
Hetty inhaled, slow and unsteady, fighting against the rising tide of feeling in her chest. “You are remarkably composed for a man bleeding upon the grass.”
“I find it difficult to panic when the lady pressing on my wound looks quite so unimpressed with my suffering.”
“Well. I did warn you not to get shot.”
“Another fine entry for the pamphlet,” he said weakly. “Tolliver Wisdom: Avoid Bullets When Possible.”
“You had better live long enough to see it published.”
“I shall make the attempt,” he said slowly, pausing between sentences for pained breath. “It would be a shame to miss the scandal sheets… ‘Earl Felled by Tolliver Pistol, Noble to the Last…’ I imagine there shall be an engraving.”
“If any attempt a caricature in your likeness, I shall ensure they render your nose incorrectly.”
Theo opened one eye, pained but amused. “How very cruel.”
“Your mouth as well.”
“I see,” he murmured, closing his eyes once more. “A full character assassination to accompany the attempted literal one. Though I must assume… you must recall my mouth rather well, then.”
She swallowed, for she did recall his mouth, far more vividly than she ought.
“It was a good kiss,” he added as an exhale, closing his eyes once more.
Her lips parted, but there was no quip poised upon them. There was nothing in her arsenal of wit or sense that could meet such a declaration with any degree of poise. In truth, she found herself entirely bereft of language.
“Was it not?” he asked, opening one eye again with great effort.
She looked away, busying herself with smoothing her skirt, brushing non-existent grass from the folds.
“Well?” he prompted at last.
“If you must know, Lord Langley,” she replied with studied dignity, “I have had better.”
“Have you? ”
She blinked. Bother… He knew perfectly well she had not kissed any man but him, and worse, he seemed thoroughly entertained by the knowledge.
“I – well – not precisely better,” she conceded. “Merely… different.”
“A poor attempt, Miss Tolliver,” he whispered. “Though I commend the effort.”
“If you had even an ounce of decency, you would cease talking.”
“If I had any decency,” he said, grimacing as he shifted minutely beneath her, “I should not have kissed you at all.”
“Where, in Heaven’s name, is that blasted carriage?” Hetty exclaimed, casting a glance over her shoulder as though sheer vexation might conjure it forth from the mist. “And for the record, sir, you did not kiss me – I kissed you.”
He gave a pained chuckle that caught in his throat. “Ah… yes. So you did. I recall being rendered… quite defenceless.”
She glared, resisting the impulse to seize him by the shoulders and shake some sense into him, which would be entirely counterproductive, considering the blood loss.
“I shall do better next time,” he said softly, his breath catching through the declaration. “Assuming, of course… I survive… and cease leaking vital fluid.”
“There shall not be a next time,” she said primly.
“Mm.” He closed his eyes briefly, his face drawn with pain, though whether in physical torment or romantic reflection she could not say. “Then I am condemned to live the remainder of my life… tormented by the memory… A tragic figure. ”
“You shall forget all about it,” she said crisply, “the moment some prettier creature presses you against a column at the next assembly and bestows upon you her affections.”
“Oh, undoubtedly,” he said raggedly. “Though I daresay she will not… have a brother who calls me out at dawn… nor her sister who shoots me through the ribs… nor pause to insult my features whilst pressing her blood-soaked gloves to my side. You have rather set the bar, Miss Tolliver.”
Despite herself, she smiled and bit the inside of her cheek to contain it. “The kiss,” she said quietly after a moment, “was a mistake.”
“Both kisses?” he asked, though the words came more slowly now, his lashes fluttering like a man fighting against slumber or worse.
“Both kisses.”
He blinked with exaggerated deliberation, as if summoning strength from some hidden reserve. “I might concede that the first… was ill-advised… but I do not believe last night’s was unintentional.” He drew a shallow breath. “You kissed me… as though you very much meant it.”
She opened her mouth to deliver a denial, but the words, those traitorous things, would not come. She sighed instead. “You are concussed.”
“Quite possibly,” he allowed, swallowing with visible difficulty. “Yet not so far gone… as to hallucinate the expression on your face… when you believed yourself unobserved. Alas, my memory… remains all too vivid.”
“I look at you with unwavering disdain. Ask anyone. ”
“I have,” he murmured, allowing his eyes to drift shut. “No one believes it…”
The sound of returning footsteps crunched over the grass, and Lottie’s voice rang out with unseemly brightness: “The doctor is awake again! He says he is terribly sorry for the swooning and believes he shall be quite steady on his feet momentarily!”
“Marvellous,” Hetty called drily. “Let us pray he does not swoon again at the mere sight of blood, or we shall be compelled to summon a second physician to tend to the first. And perhaps a vicar, while we are about it – one must prepare for every eventuality.”
She glanced down at Theo, expecting a smirk or some ill-timed jest about his own mortality, but his hand had fallen slack in hers, and his lips, though parted slightly, did not shape a single word.
“Lottie!” she called, her voice cracking into urgency.
“Tell Ben to make haste – at once, do you hear me?”
Hetty pressed her hand more firmly against Theo’s wound, as though sheer will might somehow keep the life inside him from slipping away.
She had not, until this moment, truly believed he might die.
Even when he had fallen, even when the blood first welled dark and terrible beneath her gloves, she still clung to the foolish certainty that he would rise soon with a grimace and wink and declare himself inconvenienced but by no means undone.
He must live – he must – for if he did not, she could not, by any measure, be expected to endure world in which her most aggravating, exasperating, arrogant, incorrigible, entirely beloved friend had the temerity to perish before she had the chance to tell him precisely what she thought of him .
Which, of course, was that he was wholly unsuited to her in every practical regard – that he tried her patience at every turn, took unseemly delight in provoking her temper, and possessed a most unforgivable mouth, which he employed far too often for both smirking and kissing.
And that he was also – though she would sooner be shot herself than confess it – the only man whose absence would undo her entirely, and the only one whose presence she now, most inconveniently, could not live without.