Chapter 22 #2
“I think so.” Mark’s voice was muffled, and he hissed and groaned. Wood slapped against the mud. Rain poured through the massive hole in the roof, making everything slick and fused together.
Ellen wrapped her hands around the metal stake and pulled with all her might, but the water made her hands slip right off, and she only managed to break two more fingernails and pop her knuckles. Those would bruise tomorrow. If she survived until tomorrow.
Think positively, she told herself. Mark’s here, he’s alive, and he can get out. He can find us help.
“I’m up,” Mark called. He limped through the thick mud, making squelching noises. “There are exposed nails everywhere. Don’t move.”
“Go get help,” she told him. “Find a watchman.” Her elation fizzled in the silence after he left, after she realized she was alone in this cold, cruel darkness, and she’d have to wait for his return.
Don’t be silly. He’s gone to get help. What did you expect him to do? Sit with you and watch the rain fall?
After a few moments, scraping noise near her head caused her to nearly leap out of her skin.
“Ellen?” Mark’s hoarse voice sounded by her ear, just on the other side of the wood wall.
She turned to find a knothole, shaking uncontrollably. “I thought you went for help!” Freezing water streamed down her back, puddling in her skirts.
“I’m not leaving you. I promised never again. Remember?”
Hot tears spilled over her eyes, burning tracks down her dirty cheeks. “You’re here?”
“I left through the hole and came around the wall to reach you.” He huffed, as if he struggled to breathe.
Could his cracked ribs pierce his lungs? She needed out. Now. She needed to get him to a doctor immediately.
Two of Mark’s fingers fitted through the knothole, so close to her face she could reach out and kiss them. His other hand slipped through the mud and under the base of the wall. He heaved, groaning, and the rotten wood ripped free.
“You did it!” Ellen shrieked again, this time with joy. “Mark.” She strained against the rope that kept her. “I take everything back. Go to Oxford if it will make you happy. I’ll learn to cope with it.”
Mark’s head came through the hole first, coated in mud and debris. Then his hands and chest. “Hold still,” he murmured, bringing a sharp scrap of metal to her back.
Ellen winced as the metal sliced into her hands.
The cold and the lack of light made Mark’s sawing efforts clumsy, but she wouldn’t complain.
She was just grateful they were alive. At last the final strands of the rope frayed, and she jerked her hands out of the knots, rolling her wrists carefully.
“Oh, thank goodness.” Ellen immediately pulled the broken shingles and boards off her feet, throwing them with abandon despite the lancing pain in her hands.
Rain splattered down on her from the sky and from the splashes she was making in nearby puddles with the rubble.
When at last they were free, she chafed her ankles, trying to draw the blood back into them.
Hot, sticky liquid slipped from her hands to her feet and she winced.
Mark leaned over her with the metal to slice the ropes around her ankles. She sighed in relief as they fell into the mud, and she turned to crawl out of the hole and into Mark’s arms.
She clutched him, sobbing with relief and exhaustion. “You’re here, you’re here. Oh, God, Mark, I’d thought I’d lost you.”
His arms wrapped around her, crushing her to him. She couldn’t breathe, and she didn’t care. She squeezed his neck and burrowed close. Their clothing hung wet and heavy between them, and she tasted the mud on his coat.
Mark buried his face in her neck, tangling his fingers in her hair.
“Ellen, by God, Ellen, never do that to me again. I almost died a thousand times tonight wondering if you were still alive. I’m not going to Oxford.
Not after this.” He pulled back enough to kiss her.
It was hard and possessive, a stamping of his love and desire on her, a brand to keep her safe from all harm.
Ellen gasped into his mouth and claimed him just as fiercely.
No Oxford? Her mind spun, and she didn’t know if it was because of his kiss or because of the lack of oxygen.
She’d never heard of any man taking his wife’s profession seriously.
Most career women were either single or quit their jobs upon marriage. Could he be happy with no Oxford?
“We have to get you warm. It’s been too long.” Mark loosened his grip and staggered to his feet, slipping in the mud.
Ellen held his shoulders and tried to stand, but her feet tripped over themselves and she fell into the mud.
“What’s wrong?” His voice came sharp and fast.
“It’s my feet. They’re so numb I can’t walk on them,” she got out through chattering teeth.
“I’ll carry you.” Mark leaned down and put one hand around her back, the other under her legs.
“You can’t, you have broken ribs,” she protested.
He hauled her up anyway, his face going white with pain. He steadied himself, setting his jaw, and carried her up the alley.
“To the dispensary,” she told him, arms around his neck. “We need to examine you.”
He looked at her with faint amusement. “We need to examine you.”
“And find a police watchman,” Ellen said. “O’Malley must be reported.”
By the time they were halfway there, Ellen persuaded Mark to set her on the ground. He gasped as he lowered her, and she knew she had to walk the rest of the way, even if her feet were broken and bleeding, because she couldn’t be the cause of Mark’s pain.
We need to find a path forward for us both. She remembered how Mark had purchased her the herbs without a single complaint, protest, or concern. He’d trusted her and supported her. She’d been so anxious she hadn’t even realized what he was going through, too. They could find a path together. Maybe.
They walked slowly, hand in hand, leaning on one another, shivering in the night.
When Ellen finally saw the glow of Amelia’s paraffin lamp in the bay windows, she started crying all over again.
Mark tucked her under his arm more tightly. “I’ve got you. We’re here.”
She squeezed his hand with her numb fingers and took the final steps toward safety.
“Is it too hot for you?” Mark turned the brass handle off, and the hiss of water through the pipes stopped. He knelt over her in just his filthy shirtsleeves and trousers.
Ellen sank into the porcelain bathtub, bare arms wrapped around her belly. She closed her eyes, but images of the hut and crashing roof flashed through her mind. She opened them again, shivering.
“Shite, it’s too cold. I’m sorry, I’ll try again.” Mark leaned forward for the hot water handle again. Ellen reached up and snagged his arm. Water trickled off her and onto his forearm, turning the white linen translucent.
“It’s perfect,” Ellen whispered, releasing his arm.
He furrowed his brow, peering down at her as he rested both forearms on the edge of the tub. “Are you sure? Because Dr. Hart said—”
Ellen turned to face him, curling onto her side below the hot water. “Mark,” she said gently.
Mark’s eyes trailed down her naked body, and she knew the moment he caught sight of her bruised and torn wrists and ankles, for his nostrils flared and murder shone in his eyes. She hastily tucked her bruised feet, rope scrapes and all, out of his sight.
After they’d returned to the dispensary, Amelia had examined them, treated them with antiseptic that stung so badly Ellen had to blink back tears, then wrapped Mark’s chest as tightly as she could to secure his ribs.
By then most of the searchers had trickled back to the dispensary to regroup, and they'd cheered to see Ellen, wet and bedraggled and exhausted, on a stool by the stove. Mark stood behind her, making sure the blanket draped around her shoulders never slipped.
Seeing everyone’s relieved faces nearly brought her to tears again, knowing these people cared for her.
And they’d promised to take care of O’Malley.
Ellen didn’t inquire as to what “take care” meant, she allowed Amelia and Mark to bundle her into a hired hack.
She’d shivered all the way home, trying not to lean against Mark and cause his side more pain.
Once at their home, they both had looked at the slick steps, then each other, and burst into mournful laughter.
Then her laughter turned to tears, and Mark had gingerly wrapped an arm around her, tucked her close, and they took the stairs one at a time.
Ellen had wanted to collapse in bed, but Mark insisted Amelia had ordered a warm bath for her before sleep. And that was how she found herself naked and bruised, trying to relax in a bath while her husband fretted over her, his knees probably aching from the tile floor.
“I just want you,” Ellen said honestly, and the chill surrounding her heart slowly thawed under the weight of his hot gaze.
“You have me,” he swore. “Always.” Pain lines bracketed his mouth, his eyes bloodshot. A massive bruise was blooming on his left cheekbone.
“I want you with me now,” she said, and placed her wet hand over one of his.
Mark eyed her, then stood in one fluid motion, the braces loose at his hips swinging.
Only the tiny grunt betrayed how it hurt to move.
His hands went to the buttons of his shirt, and he quickly undid them, stripping his ripped and stained shirt to reveal his muscled chest, swathed in white bandages.
“Oh,” Ellen faltered at the sight. “You probably shouldn’t get those wet.”
Mark was toeing off his shoes, then stripped his socks with a wince from bending over. “My wife wants me with her, and I do what my wife wants.”
He meant it, she realized. He’d always meant it. From that late October afternoon he stepped back into her life, he had put her and her needs before him, his family, and his own desires. He’d really been willing to disappoint everyone just to give her what she needed.