by Martha Keyes
Anne shook her head and smiled, taking her leave after dropping a light kiss on James's head.
She walked at a brisk pace back toward Hazelhurst, the confidence with which she had spoken to Mrs. Turner fleeing with the small gust of wind that kicked up the leaves in the road.
This was not a problem she could solve on her own, but asking for help from Tobias would require her to humble herself and put aside her hurt for the good of Louisa, James, and the Turners. After all, Tobias had done nothing wrong, according to the terms of their agreement. It was none of her affair what he chose to do with his time or affection. Nor was it any of her business to be falling in love with him.
But when she arrived back at Hazelhurst, Tobias was nowhere to be found. Nor did any of the servants she encountered seem aware of his whereabouts. It wasn't until she peeked her head into the library for a second time that Wallace came upon her, winded from running the corridor to find her.
"My lady," he said, "Mr. Cosgrove asked me to inform you that he has gone after Mr. Hackett"—he raised his brows as if uncertain whether she would understand the reference—"and is not sure when he shall return."
Anne's heart plummeted within her.
The pistol. Mr. Hackett had taken Mr. Turner's pistol, and Tobias was going after him.
"When?" She put an urgent hand on Wallace's arm. "When did he leave?"
Wide-eyed, Wallace sputtered a moment. "Perhaps fifteen minutes ago? He took the coach in a great hurry."
Anne shut her eyes for a moment to steady her breathing. "We must send some of the servants after him. He may be in great danger."
Wallace nodded, stunned, and turned on his heel.
"Wallace!" Anne said, remembering her conversation with Mrs. Turner. "Have them search the road to London and Dover."
He bowed quickly and flew back down the corridor the way he had come.
Anne stood in place, her hand clutching at her chest. Unwelcome visions of what might happen to Tobias flashed through her mind, making her stomach churn and her heart feel as if it might fail her. Heaven forbid that her final words to him be the chastising ones from earlier.
Her first impulse was to dress quickly and join the servants looking for him. But she knew that would be folly.
Twilight was descending over the October scene, and though she was familiar enough with the Dorset landscape around them to ride it in the dark, it was not unheard of to encounter footpads on the road from Weymouth to London. The servants would feel obliged to protect her from any danger, and she couldn't afford to distract the focus from Tobias.
And yet, she could hardly sit idle, waiting for news. It would be torture.
But what other option did she have?
The coach rumbled along over the uneven dirt roads that led from Dorset into Hampshire, and Tobias wished mightily that he were chasing Hackett on his horse rather than at the slower pace of the coach.
He was closing the distance between them—that had been clear from the information he had obtained at the last two inns.
And a very good thing it was. Tobias hardly wished to carry on at this pace for days at a time, which would be the case if he had to pursue Hackett all the way to Dover—assuming that was where the man was headed.
Tobias had instructed the last inn to have a constable summoned, ready to accept Mr. Hackett into his custody.
He had little doubt that Hackett was headed for Dover. He had burned too many bridges in London to return. Such was his reputation amongst the money-lenders there that Mr. Hackett would be hard put to borrow so much as a shilling from them. They had come to know him by sight—and a fair sketch of him circulated amongst those who did not—so that his multiple aliases would no longer serve him.
How the man had acquired enough money to afford the hiring of a post-chaise was a mystery to Tobias until he learned from one of the innkeepers that Hackett had pawned a set of cutlery and a necklace.
Tobias opened the coach door and stuck his head out, squinting at the moonlit road. A chaise and two appeared in the distance, about to turn the bend in the road, and Tobias gritted his teeth. This must be Mr. Hackett.
The hired chaise couldn't compete with the four horses pulling Tobias's coach, and it wasn't long before they were side-by-side, the coach pulling ahead enough to force the chaise driver to stop.
Tobias's coach pulled to a stop ahead, blocking the road, and Tobias hopped down from the curricle, anticipation flowing through his veins at the prospect of bringing Hackett to justice.
The chaise door opened a crack.
"Hackett!" Tobias called, approaching the door with caution. "Your ruse is up. Come out and surrender, or I shall be obliged to bring your surrender about by force."
Tobias squinted as something appeared in the gap between the chaise door and frame. A loud shot rang out, and Tobias stumbled backward, grasping at the top of his right arm and swearing through clenched teeth.
His fingers came away, dark with blood, his shoulder burning.
The door opened wider, and Mr. Hackett emerged, a double-barreled pepperbox pistol in hand which was leveled at Tobias, along with the self-congratulatory, contemptuous smile on his face.
"I think we part ways here, Cosgrove," Mr. Hackett said. He looked at the pistol in his hand, turning it to the side so that the moonlight glinted off it. "Yes, I am quite sure of it."
Tobias clamped his jaw, trying to ignore the building pain in his arm. He couldn't let the man escape.
"Hmm," said Mr. Hackett, frowning as he looked at the dark spot where blood was soaking through Tobias's coat. "I am obviously out of practice with the pistol. I certainly wasn't aiming for your arm."
"Merely a scratch," Tobias said, his words slurred, and his lids fluttering slightly. He suddenly cried out in pain, grasping at his arm and pitching forward.
Mr. Hackett hopped back to avoid being fallen on, and Tobias seized his opportunity, grasping for the pistol butt in Mr. Hackett's hand and sending his other, injured arm flying at Mr. Hackett's head. It made contact with Hackett's cheek, and he stumbled to the side, still holding the pistol in hand.
There wasn't a second to spare, and Tobias sent his boot into Mr. Hackett's stomach, successfully dislodging the pistol from his hand as Hackett fell backward.
Tobias grasped the pistol with his left hand, knowing that his right arm was essentially useless after the great burst of energy it had required to hit Mr. Hackett with it. It hung down limply at his side.
He cursed as he leveled the pistol at Mr. Hackett, feeling how unsteady it was in his hand. He felt wretchedly weak, and it was strange to grip the pistol with his left hand. He had only shot a pistol with his left hand a few times in his life, usually as a form of amusement between friends to see who had the best accuracy with their non-dominant hand.
"Stay where you are, Hackett."
Mr. Hackett scrambled back up, barreling toward Tobias who squeezed the trigger. A loud shot rang out as a ball buried itself in Mr. Hackett's stomach. The man staggered and fell backward.
Tobias let the pistol drop to his side, clenching his eyes shut again to stop the scene before him from spinning and roiling around him. He had the distinct suspicion that he was about to lose consciousness.
"To the Peacock," he said weakly, turning to his driver who had rushed over to him. "Get us to the Peacock."
The world went black.
20
Anne paced the length of the Hazelhurst courtyard, biting down on the tip of her thumbnail. She knew she was exhausted, even if she didn't feel tired. It was late—likely after one o'clock, though she had admittedly lost all sense of time in the hours since she had discovered Tobias's departure. Her stomach growled angrily at her, but she didn't heed it.
One of the servants—the only one sent west on the off chance that Mr. Hackett had headed toward Cornwall rather than London or Dover—had returned half an hour ago, having had no success discovering that any man of Tobias's or Mr. Hackett's description had passed by any o
f the inns on that road.
Anne stilled, cocking an ear to listen for the very faint rumbling she thought she could hear. It wouldn't be the first time she had imagined it, though.
But no. The rumbling was getting louder, and Anne couldn't stop herself from walking toward it. The barely discernible outline of a coach flanked by a few riders began to form in front of Anne's straining eyes.
Her heart thumped against her ribs as she tried to scan the faces of the passing servants for any indication whatsoever of what news she should expect.
She hurried alongside them, holding her pelisse and skirts up.
The coachman jumped down from the driving box, noticed Anne, and said, "Call for towels, water, and brandy!"
Her stomach lurched, and she ran toward the house, hoping that such an order was at least evidence that her husband was alive. The urgency with which the coachman had said the words, though….
She blinked away the images her mind insisted upon throwing before her and tugged on the nearest bell violently.
She had only to wait ten seconds before one of the maids came rushing toward her, her eyes wide with a question. Anne instructed her to have the requested items brought to Tobias's room and to ensure that someone was sent for the doctor if one of the other riders hadn’t already done so.
Scuffling sounded in the entry hall along with the voices of servants directing one another. Anne moved to make way for the servants to pass through the doorway to the staircase, her eyes fixed upon the form of her husband whose body hung limp in their arms, his head lolled over to the side, his coat removed, and an area the size of a dinner plate soaked through with bright red blood on the sleeve and waist of his shirt.
Anne put a hand to her stomach and followed them up the stairs to Tobias's room, where the servants set him onto the white sheets.
Steps sounded, and Anne tore her stinging eyes from the unconscious form of her husband. The doctor had arrived, thank heaven. Someone must have ridden for him instead of accompanying the others back to Hazelhurst.
"What happened?" the doctor said, moving with quick, firm steps to Tobias's side.
"Gunshot," said one of the groomsmen. "In the arm. S'all we know, sir."
The coachman stepped forward. "He was shot in the arm once, sir. But he managed to wrest the pistol and then put a bullet in the other man before fainting."
"And he has been unconscious ever since?" said the doctor, opening up the shirtfront and putting an ear to Tobias's chest.
The coachman shot an uncomfortable glance at Anne and cleared his throat. "No, sir. He came to for a brief moment at the Peacock, where we were obliged to stop to leave the other fellow."
The doctor nodded, too busy cutting the shirt from Tobias's body to note the coachman's hesitation. "Did he say anything?"
Again the coachman's eyes flitted to Anne, and she frowned. What was the man about, looking at her in such a strange way?
"He did."
The doctor finally turned toward him, impatient. "Well?"
"He was mostly mumbling the name of her ladyship, sir."
Anne swallowed, her cheeks beginning to burn. Her heart ached with hope at the words.
"He became agitated enough, though, that we thought it best to return him here rather than calling for a doctor to come to the Peacock." He paused. "And he did calm once we declared our intention to drive him home, painful though it must have been."
The doctor frowned, reaching into his leather bag for some shiny metal instruments. "Yes, it was unwise to make such a journey. He has a great fever developing, and I must extract the ball from his arm, which is likely to aggravate the fever."
He set the instruments on the bedside table and took the warm, wet towel which one of the maids handed to him. "But what's done is done, and it is possible that having him at home will speed his recovery in the end. I have found that people are much more likely to heal when they are in a familiar place with familiar people than in some strange inn where one cannot count on even the sheets being properly aired, to say nothing of the fare or the quality of service."
Realizing that their presence was no longer necessary, the servants began to trickle out of the room, the coachman and a maid being the last to do so, after inquiring of the doctor whether they could be of any service. Being in the midst of preparing for the bullet extraction, the doctor only shook his head, and they, too, left.
Anne tried to watch the doctor's process, somehow feeling that she owed it to Tobias—how could she waver at the sight of blood when he had a hole in his arm?—but the doctor very firmly instructed her to go sit beside her husband.
"You might even hold his hand," he suggested as he dabbed at the skin around the wound. "Who knows but what your touch might calm him, for he is sure to come to as I do this."
Anne walked around to the other side of the bed, wondering if the doctor knew how dearly she had been wishing to do just what he had said.
She scooted onto the bed, certain that the doctor could hear her heart beating even from five feet away, and took Tobias's hand in hers, her bare skin tingling at the touch, even though there was no returning pressure from him.
True to the doctor's prediction, Tobias began to stir and then struggle as the doctor worked on his arm. Anne squeezed his hand in hers, leaning toward him and putting a hand atop his head in an effort to calm him as he groaned and writhed.
Tobias's brow shimmered with sweat, and his lids fluttered for a moment and then opened slowly, a small v-shaped crease between his brows.
Anne leaned over him, relief washing over her to see him conscious. Tobias's eyes stared at her for a moment, bleary and blank, until the smallest trembling of a smile touched the corner of his mouth. "Anne."
That one word.
He had said it countless times, and yet it washed over her now as if it were the first time he had truly said it. A tear dropped down from her eye, splashing on Tobias's cheek, and she gave a watery chuckle before wiping it away gently. The wrinkle in his forehead smoothed as they looked into each other's eyes.
His brows snapped together suddenly, and Anne looked over at the doctor's hands, fiddling with their instruments in the small but gaping hole, the sight of which sent a wave of nausea over her.
Tobias went rigid for a moment, his hand grasping Anne's so tightly that she winced, and then he went limp, unconscious yet again.
"There!" said the doctor triumphantly, holding the lead ball between his bloodied tweezers.
Anne only glanced at it, wiping Tobias's brow with the damp towel and longing for him to open his eyes again.
The doctor stayed another twenty minutes, seeing to the wound, instructing Anne to expect the fever to get worse before it got better, detailing what food and drink Tobias should be allowed when he woke, and leaving with her a vial of laudanum to give to him in doses. He reassured her that he would call on them in the late morning and left her to her husband.
The sudden quiet of the room pounded in Anne's ears as she assumed her place on the bed next to Tobias again. Never had she been in a room with Tobias where silence had reigned—it was not in Tobias's nature to be quiet. She smiled weakly at the thought, offering up a silent prayer of gratitude that he was alive and likely to recover.
She brought his clammy hand to her lips and kissed the back of it, remembering the way he had looked at her only moments ago. She could not have imagined the affection she had seen there, but she hardly dared believe it.
She glanced at the foot of the bed, remembering with a flutter in her stomach the evening they had fallen asleep together there, hand in hand. It seemed an eon ago—before Anne had admitted the strength of her feelings to herself, before she had discovered that Tobias sought the society of other women to keep him company.
Her heart clenched, and her stomach knotted at the thought. She didn't wish to share Tobias with anyone. Would he be so nonchalant if she decided to seek the company of other gentlemen, even discreetly? She had assumed that he had suspected her
intensifying feelings for him—it seemed impossible that he should be completely ignorant of them, after all—but his comments about Mr. Hackett had pointed against such a conclusion. How could Tobias think it possible that Anne should give a second thought to Mr. Hackett when she was pining in secret over him?
Perhaps it was time to let him know that this marriage of convenience had become terribly inconvenient for Anne, so hopeful and despairing was she over the love she felt for Tobias. He might reject her, of course—he might not wish to change their arrangement.
And if that were the case—Anne breathed in deeply—so be it. They might easily live separate lives in separate places, as did many couples they knew.
But Anne could no longer conceal her feelings, even if she faced rejection for admitting to them. She had faced rejection before, and she could face it again if there was any possibility at all that Tobias shared her feelings.
She could hardly confess her love to a comatose Tobias, though. Nor was she convinced that it would have been the proper time to do so were he to wake this very moment.
She sighed, resisting the strong urge she had to curl up next to him and fall asleep. It would only hurt all the more if she were to discover upon his waking that he did not share her sentiments.
Her confession would have to wait until he healed.
21
Tobias moaned and squeezed his eyes closed as tightly as he could, turning his head away from the bright light that seemed to blaze through his closed lids. He couldn't escape it, though, and in an attempt to block the light, he tried to raise his arm. But not only was his arm stuck in place, it hurt like the devil.
A shuffling noise sounded, then footsteps, and suddenly the light was gone. He relaxed his forehead. Bless whoever had done it.
He let his eyes open to bare slits, seeing the familiar pattern of his coverlet, lit dimly—thank heaven—by what must have been the light of one solitary candle nearby.
He was in his bedroom, obviously, but why in the name of all that was holy did his head pound as if someone were inside, striking at his skull with a cudgel?
