by Alyssa Drake
Although it was mid-morning, Sam met very few people on the route. The street appeared deserted, except for a few carriages that rushed their owners’ home from whereabouts unknown. Most people, Sam surmised, must be hiding inside their houses, avoiding the impending storm. She grimaced; most people were not agonizing over a silly kiss.
Sam found the park completely empty. The lush green square of grass grew along the riverbank, her solace away from Hastings Manor. More than once, she found herself drawn to this part of town whenever the homesickness became too much to bear. Sam ached to remove her shoes and stockings and run barefoot across the park. Reminiscing of warm summer days at Hastings Manor, she slyly looked to her left and right. Appreciating the solitude, she deftly plucked her shoes and stockings off her feet. Tucking her stockings into her shoes, she wiggled her toes in the blades of grass.
Then she set off down the bank, allowing the grass to tickle the bottom of her feet. Sam hummed happily as she swung her shoes in her left hand. The grass sprung back resiliently the moment her foot removed its weight. Sam smiled. No trace of her indiscretion, the grass ate up her footprints almost immediately. Tipping her head back, she stared at the sky. Judging how much time had passed since she had left the townhouse, Sam decided a few more minutes would be allowable before she returned to her suffocating prison. The soft grass was too inviting.
“What the devil are you doing?” The gruff voice took Sam by surprise. She gasped, nearly dropping her shoes down the bank into the river. The one man she was trying to get out of her mind now appeared in front of her, an apparition who refused to quit haunting her.
Peering up the gentle slope, she apprehensively watched Lord Westwood approach. His long legs closed the distance between them, faster than she anticipated. She debated hiding but found herself frozen with fear like a deer suddenly caught in a field. Sam stopped walking and stood very still. She hoped the length of her dress would cover her naked feet. The shoes she hid behind her back.
“Lord Westwood,” she called out a greeting, hoping he did not notice the trepidation in her voice.
“What are you doing out here, by yourself, with no chaperone when it is about to rain?” he demanded as he advanced. No sooner had the words left his lips than the steely sky above them opened and drenched them both.
“I was taking a walk,” Sam replied with a shiver as the cold droplets pierced her skin.
“Are you crazy?” Lord Westwood fumed. By this time, both of them were soaked completely to the skin, rivulets of water streamed down his face.
“I was not doing anything wrong,” she retorted, her shoes still tucked behind her back.
“My carriage will take you home,” he gestured impatiently to a black carriage waiting several yards away on the street.
Sam did not move. She looked wildly between him and the carriage, wondering how she could walk with dignity through the park without exposing her secret. Lord Westwood would surely notice her shoes were not on her feet. She crinkled her exposed toes under the hem of her sopping muslin dress and shook her head resolutely.
“No, thank you, my Lord, I prefer to walk.” Her teeth chattered loudly.
“Obstinate woman,” he growled. “Do not force me to carry you.”
“You would not dare,” she gasped, blushing at the thought of his hands wrapped intimately around her waist.
Lord Westwood arched an eyebrow as if accepting her challenge and took a step toward her. She lithely leapt out of his reach, exposing her pink toes. He stopped short.
“Where are your shoes?” Lord Westwood roared.
Sam shrugged and brought her left hand out from behind her back, the missing shoes and stockings, now hopelessly saturated.
“In my hand,” she murmured, avoiding his eyes. Another infraction; Wilhelmina would hear of this, Sam was certain. What horrible societal punishment would Wilhelmina think up this time?
Lord Westwood took a deep breath and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, they blazed darkly. Lunging, he swept her into his arms, pulling her body tight against him. Before Sam could react, he carted her through the rain to his waiting carriage and deposited her, none too gently, on the leather seat. Hefting himself in as well, he slammed the door with a grimace. He sank onto the velvet cushion with a squelch and knocked on the window. His driver cracked a whip, and the carriage lurched forward.
Sam opened her mouth to speak, but no words formed. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. Instead, she stared at his stony face, willing him to speak but fearing his words. After several times of opening and closing her mouth, she gave up and sat dripping on the cushion. Minutes crawled by, Sam spending the time memorizing the pattern on the floor.
She tucked her bare feet under her skirt as much to warm them as to prevent them from reminding Lord Westwood of his temper. Hoping to sit in silence the rest of the way to Wilhelmina’s townhouse, she adjusted the curtain slightly to peer out the window and gasped. They were traveling in the opposite direction.
Noticing her distress, Lord Westwood spoke in a monotone, “We are going to change clothes first.”
Sam’s head snapped up, her wet hair flinging drops of water on the upholstery. “Why?” she stammered, immediately wishing she could swallow her question.
“Because I am soaked to the skin as are you.” He silenced Sam’s protest with a hard look. “Imagine how Mrs. Hastings will react if I deposit you on her doorstep with us both in this state. Now, I have had an exceptionally long day. I am cold and tired and would appreciate it if you would sit there, and for once, not argue with me.”
Sam nodded mutely. Wilhelmina would be furious. First, because it rained, and Sam was foolish enough to get caught in it; second, because she had no shoes on; and third, because she left without a chaperone and compromised her virtue riding home with an unmarried man. Although technically he was her guardian, she allowed. Wilhelmina would doubtfully ever let Sam out of her sight again. So much for her freedom, Sam thought sadly. Wilhelmina might actually lock Sam inside her bedchamber.
She sighed. Lord Westwood had a point, however frustrating it felt to admit he was right; it would be best to return in a somewhat presentable state. Although she did not want to spend the rest of the morning alone with him, in his bachelor lodgings while her clothes dried. That excursion would certainly create fodder for the gossiping biddies. Somehow, someone would see her, then the rumors would destroy her carefully crafted reputation. Not to mention his ability to annihilate the rational side of her mind with just his presence.
“Where are we going?” Sam asked in terror as her mind whirled with dreadful possibilities and the sudden realization of the seriousness of the situation.
“We are going to my mother’s residence on the outskirts of town. We will be able to dry our clothes without any unnecessary attention,” he declared, reading her worries. “Now, please, hold your tongue before you anger me further.”
Sam fought to stay quiet. She counted the seconds in her head, squeezing her eyes tightly shut, but her nerves strained under the forced silence. She giggled. Once she started, the laugh became louder, coming in hiccups as she struggled to remain silent. Her hand clamped over her mouth to stifle the sound, but it only caused her entire body to shake. Unable to control her laughter, she glanced up at Lord Westwood with wild eyes.
Lord Westwood glared at her as though she were mad. “Are you trying my patience on purpose? I warn you, it is not endless.”
“No.” Sam battled to breathe. She felt hysterical as if her soul wanted to climb out of her skin. His anger palpable in the tiny carriage, Sam tried to control her panic.
“I giggle when I get nervous,” she explained weakly after covering another giggle with an odd hiccup. The sound wrenched itself under her tongue.
“I see,” he replied icily. He shifted slightly, moving closer to her side of the carriage.
“I am trying to stop.” The bubble of laughter hovered dangerously in her throat.
Lord West
wood leaned forward further, his warm breath caressing her lips. When he spoke, his voice filled with curiosity. “Do I make you nervous?”
“Yes,” she whispered, scooting back against the leather. She tried to avoid his intense eyes, looking lower and focusing on his mouth. Wrong choice, she thought, her eyes searching the tiny carriage for somewhere else to stare, but his face filled her entire vision. Her heart beat loudly, thumping hard against her chest. She feared Lord Westwood would hear the sound. Sam’s chest rose quickly as her breath caught the remaining giggle and she swallowed uneasily.
She shivered violently, her teeth chattering from the chill of her wet clothes. She noticed her hands trembling uncontrollably in the dimness of the carriage. Rubbing her hands together, she shuddered again. She blew on her hands to warm them and finally placed them against her cheeks. Her face burned hot under the coolness of her fingertips.
Lord Westwood regarded her silently, remaining a few meters closer to her than socially acceptable. He shook his head suddenly and settled himself properly on his bench again.
“Are your feet cold?” he asked abruptly. His gruff tone grated through the silence in the carriage.
“My feet?” echoed Sam, staring distractedly at her toes. They did seem an unusual shade of blue.
“Yes, feet, cold,” Lord Westwood prodded. She looked up to see concern flash through his green eyes. They seemed duller today, Sam noted absently, thinking perhaps he was dealing with an exhausting business matter. Her gaze flickered back to her exposed toes.
“Yes.” They were numb as well, but she did not mention that fact.
Without asking her permission, Lord Westwood reached down and seized her feet from under the soaked muslin skirt. His hands massaged heat into her skin. Sam sunk down, her legs resting on his lap. She felt hot and cold at the same time. Although Lord Westwood rubbed warmth into Sam’s feet, she continued to shake incessantly. The rocking carriage lulled her like a cradle as her chin dropped to her chest. Sam’s eyelids fluttered shut as a fever took hold.
Chapter Twelve
June 1843 - Hastings Manor
“Keep your guard up, Sammie.” Edward’s jovial voice carried across the lawn, disrupting a pair of nesting birds. They squawked angrily, flying over the lake toward a willow tree resting on the other side of the bank. Their displeasure echoed across the calm water.
“Sammie, do not drop your hand, it will make you an easy target,” Edward instructed. His eyes gleamed as he lunged toward Sam, the epee swung wide.
Sam ducked easily since Edward towered two feet above her. She giggled, returning with a thrust, which he neatly side-stepped. The warm sun shone on them like a spotlight, highlighting each block and parry. Flashes of light, momentarily blinding any observer, glinted like fireflies.
“Ah ha,” shouted Edward playfully. He lunged forward again, quickly catching Sam’s left shoulder with the tip of his foil. He laughed, pretending to remove an invisible hat before he bowed teasingly at Sam.
“Point and match,” he shouted, his adult frame galloping boastful circles around their make-shift arena. Sam glared at him, sticking out her pink tongue as he continued to dance around.
“Someday, I will beat you,” vowed Sam, her narrowed eyes following her older brother’s antics.
Edward stopped mid-celebration and chewed thoughtfully on his lip. “True, but you’ll have to catch me first,” he taunted and raced across the grass to a picnic spread under an oak tree.
Sam ran as fast as her little legs could carry her, a blur of motion and color on an otherwise peaceful day. She collapsed on the blanket, reaching for one of the sandwiches Edward had piled on his plate. He blocked her hand with his arm, a devilish grin on his face.
“Too slow again,” he teased. “To the winner go the spoils.”
“Edward Hastings,” Governess McConnell addressed him as if he was still her charge. “I do not think teaching a ten-year-old fencing is your Great-Uncle’s idea of helping me tutor.”
“Sure, it is,” Edward replied around the watercress sandwich stuffed in his mouth. “Father taught me at that age; both Uncle Ephraim and Father learned at an even younger age.”
“But Samantha is a girl,” Governess McConnell pointed out, her voice dripped with scandal.
“Are you really?” Edward turned toward his sister with a mocking expression. He grinned, then tickled Sam until she shrieked with laughter.
“Ladies should learn about tea and embroidery.” Governess McConnell’s pinched face glared at him sternly over Sam’s braided head.
Edward smirked, “I do not know anything about those activities. Uncle said to teach her about things I knew. And hey, come back here.”
Sam had managed to steal several sandwiches off his plate during the conversation. Leaping off the blanket, she ran for the lake, squishing the food in her clenched fists. She had almost reached the willow tree on the lake’s edge before Edward tackled her, scattering sandwiches in every direction.
“You little thief,” he said, hauling Sam to her feet by her wrists. “You are going to have to learn to run faster than that.”
Sam squealed with glee as he lifted her onto his shoulders. Dancing around the willow tree, Edward pretended to trip, almost dropping Sam into the lake’s still blue water. Laughing happily, she clung to his head, grappling fistfuls of his chestnut hair to regain her balance. They both ignored Governess McConnell’s criticizing commentary, a tirade of should-nots that leapt from her lips in a rapid staccato. Annoyed and frustrated, she marched into the house, her mouth pressed into a thin line of disapproval.
Edward whirled around in dizzying circles for several more minutes after the governess disappeared inside. As he danced, the hem of Sam’s dress fell in his face, blocking his view. Edward leaned precariously to his left, struggling to swipe the cloth from his eyes. He stumbled on an exposed root of the willow tree and caught his foot, falling forward. Edward landed on the grass with a loud thump, knocking the breath from his lungs. Sam flew off his shoulders, bouncing several times before rolling unceremoniously into the lake.
Freezing water shocked a screech from Sam’s throat. Her empty lungs filled with water just as her feet touched the muddy bottom of the lake bed. She clawed her way toward the sky, able to see Edward’s rippling face on the surface. Her water-logged dress, petticoat, and layers of underclothes provided strong resistance, and Sam felt herself sinking down into the reeds. Kicking her feet caused mud to swirl up around her, the view of Edward becoming distorted.
Maybe I’ll just live with the mermaids, Sam’s oxygen-deprived brain decided. Her legs kicked off from the ground again, but the weeds wrapped tightly around her boots. Struggling, she stretched her arms to Edward. Blackness clouded her vision, creeping in slowly from the sides. She extended her fingers a bit more, the bones seeming to pop out of their sockets. The shadows closed quickly, leaving Edward’s blue eyes burning in her mind.
There was so much pain in the blue, colored with a touch a fear that circled around his pupils. Sam wished she could take Edward’s pain away. Perhaps he could live at the bottom of the lake with her. Her eyes closed.
A rock poked unmercifully at her spine, threatening to pierce her skin. Her head rolled sideways, and she opened her eyes. She stared in confusion at the blurry colors, which dripped down her face, gathering under her cheek; her vision cleared. A thick green canopy captured her attention. It seemed such a lovely color to be growing under the water.
Sam’s eyes refocused, and she realized she was staring at a tree, more specifically, the willow tree at the edge of the lake. Edward’s worried voice called to her faintly as if trapped in a deep hole. Suddenly, a rush of sound and color overloaded her senses, making her woozy. Soft hands lifted her head as she vomited lake water.
“Sammie,” Edward sighed. He wrapped her in his wet arms, his hair dripping onto her face. So much emotion was packed in that one word, Sam felt as though her heart would break in two. Cradling the mess of curls to his h
ead, Edward whispered her name continuously. They sat motionless in the cold sun. He cried, and Sam cried. She clung to him as he breathed for her.
Governess McConnell found the two of them curled on the ground. Her pursed lips showed her displeasure, but she wisely held her tongue. She lifted Sam from Edward’s lap, after prying his fingers from her head. The three sloshed silently toward the front of the house, ignoring the picnic still spread carelessly on the lawn.
As the trio rounded the corner, they were greeted by a freezing wind. Shivering in Governess McConnell’s arms, Sam coughed several times, shaking her tiny frame.
“I want to walk with Edward,” whined Sam.
“Quiet child. I need to get you out of these wet clothes before you catch a chill.”
Quickly bustling Sam into her bedchamber, Governess McConnell stripped Sam of her ruined dress and tucked her under a heaping pile of blankets. Sam–lost in a sea of white linen–became delirious from fever within the hour. She rambled about mermaids and fencing.
The fever she contracted took a bad turn around midnight, and its tiny victim, already weak, now struggled to survive. Fretting with worry, Edward sent for the doctor as well as Uncle Ephraim. Ephraim arrived early the next morning when the moon was still visible in the sky. He brought with him several trunks, two more doctors, and one specialist. The diagnosis was the same; they would have to wait for the fever to break.
Edward spent the day holding Sam’s hand. Her skin, as pale as the sheets, burned under his touch. She tossed fitfully, calling his name in a hoarse voice. The darkened room reeked of sweat and sickness, the combination stinging his nostrils. Sam’s hair, dull against the white pillows, clung in patches to her cheeks and forehead.
