The Invalid #2
"I thought I would leave the choice to you.
" Penelope settled into the chair by the bedside with easy grace.
"You must be dreadfully bored already. And in pain, which is worse.
The laudanum is for the latter; the novels are for the former.
Though I suppose you could combine them for a truly transcendent experience. "
Florinda discovered, with a sinking sensation in her chest, that she liked this woman.
This was, she reflected, deeply inconvenient.
"I confess I did not expect kindness," she said. "Given the circumstances."
"What circumstances? That you fell off your horse near my fiancé's estate?
" Penelope's tone was easy, but her eyes were steady.
"That seems rather more misfortune than malice.
Unless you were attempting to throw yourself into his path as part of an elaborate romantic scheme, in which case I must admire your commitment to the theatrical whilst questioning your sense of self-preservation. "
"I assure you, if I were scheming to attract a duke, I would choose a method that did not involve shattering my leg."
"Very sensible. I always thought the women in novels who feign illness to gain sympathy lacked imagination.
So much easier to simply be charming." Penelope reached into the basket and withdrew the promised book.
"Shall I read to you? I find The Italian is best enjoyed with company to gasp at the appropriate moments. "
And so Florinda found herself spending the afternoon in the company of her host's fiancée, listening to tales of sinister monks and imperilled heroines while the blue guest chamber filled with the particular warmth of unexpected friendship.
Penelope read well—her voice rising and falling with the drama, her commentary sharp and surprisingly funny.
"I do think Ellena should simply ask what is happening rather than wandering about being mysterious and frightened.
If I were being held prisoner by monks, I would demand to speak with the management. "
"Perhaps that is why Gothic heroines are never practical women," Florinda offered. "Practical women would resolve the plot in two chapters and then demand tea."
"And then what would we read?" Penelope turned the page. "No, I think we must allow them their dramatic suffering. It makes the rescue so much more satisfying."
Rescue.
Florinda thought of arms lifting her from the cold ground. A voice in her ear. The rhythm of footsteps, steady as a heartbeat.
She was being ridiculous. She was being precisely the sort of swooning fool she had just mocked. The head injury was clearly affecting her judgment.
"Lady Florinda?" Penelope was watching her. "You've gone pale. Shall I fetch the laudanum?"
"No. No, I am quite well." Florinda managed a smile. "Merely tired. The injury, you understand."
"Of course." Penelope set the book aside and rose. "I shall leave you to rest. But I will return tomorrow, if you will have me. We have only just reached the part where Schedoni begins to be properly sinister."
"I should like that." The words emerged before Florinda could consider them, and she realised with some dismay that she meant them.
Penelope paused at the door. "For what it is worth, Lady Florinda—I am glad His Grace found you. Truly. It would have been a terrible thing, to lose someone so... spirited."
She departed before Florinda could formulate a response.
* * *
That night, alone in the blue guest chamber with only the fire for company, Florinda could not sleep.
This was, she told herself, because of the pain. The laudanum had worn off enough to leave her leg aching and her mind inconveniently sharp. It had nothing to do with other matters. Nothing whatsoever.
She stared at the canopy above her head and catalogued everything she had learned today: that she was trapped, that she was helpless, that the woman whose fiancé she had once kissed was kind and clever and genuinely enjoyable company.
She liked Penelope. She genuinely, uncomplicatedly liked her.
This was, Florinda decided, proof that the universe possessed both a cruel sense of humour and an excessive fondness for irony.
She closed her eyes and tried to think of nothing.
She thought instead of arms around her, lifting her as though she weighed nothing at all.
The voice in her ear—had he said her name?
She thought he had said her name. The memory was fragmentary, blurred by pain and cold, but she could almost hear it: Stay awake. Stay with me.
And there had been counting. She was almost certain there had been counting—a rhythm beneath his breath, steady as a march, as though the numbers were keeping him upright.
She had not seen him since waking. He had not visited, which was proper.
He was her host, not her friend. He was engaged to a kind, clever woman who brought laudanum and Gothic novels to invalids.
He was not the sort of man who should be visiting unmarried women in their bedchambers, even if he had carried those women two miles with shattered legs.
This was all perfectly sensible.
Florinda was annoyed to discover that she was disappointed anyway.
It is the head injury, she told herself firmly.
The shock. The laudanum. You are not lying awake thinking about a man you kissed nine years ago who is engaged to marry someone else.
You are processing the trauma of nearly dying.
This is a perfectly normal response to a near-death experience and has absolutely nothing to do with the way he said your name.
The fire crackled. The blue curtains shifted in some imperceptible draft. Somewhere in the house, a clock struck midnight.
Florinda stared at the ceiling and did not think about Frederick. She did not think about the warmth of his arms or the steadiness of his stride or the way he had counted his steps as though the numbers were the only thing between him and disaster.
She thought about all of it anyway, and was thoroughly irritated with herself for doing so.
When sleep came at last, she dreamed of being carried through snow that had turned inexplicably to blue wallpaper, and when she woke to grey morning and the distant sound of hooves on gravel, she had the distinct and thoroughly unwelcome sense that her life had just become significantly more complicated.