by Stacy Reid
Several minutes passed before Primrose accepted something was dreadfully wrong. He muttered fitfully and thrashed about almost violently. There were moments of stillness which were more frightening than his erratic throes.
She was almost senseless with fear as she hurriedly dressed in a dark green serviceable gown. Her fingers trembled as she did up the rows of buttons at the front. They had no carriage, and there was no doctor in the village. Her course was clear, she had to summon his brother or father to their cottage. They had the means to see that Gabriel was attended immediately.
As if mocking her determination to seek help, lightning flashed across the sky, and seconds later, torrential rain gushed from the heavens, battering the roof of the cottage. Firming her lips, she laced her winter boots tightly. Then tugged on her gloves, fur hat, and coat which fluttered around her like a warm cape. A quick search did not reveal Gabriel to possess a raincoat at their cottage, and she hadn’t been able to afford one.
Primrose hurried over to him and pressed a kiss to his brow. “I’ll be back soon my love.” She grabbed a small oil lamp, lit it, and collected her parasol. Then she made her way to the front door and slipped outside into the bracing cold. She sucked a harsh icy breath into her lungs as she opened the parasol over her head, wishing she had a sturdy umbrella, instead of the fashionable puff she’d bought on impulse last year.
Primrose started her journey, heading toward the darkened woodlands which had short paths toward Sancrest Manor. She risked catching her death, but she pushed ahead, trudging through the snow and sludge. She lowered her head against the chilling rain and spurred toward her destination, grateful she had walked this path so many times. The darkness was frightful and overwhelming, but she allowed the memory of Gabriel's fevered and incoherent muttering to push her to move faster.
The gray wash of dawn arrived, allowing her to see the grand manor in the distance. A sob of relief left her dried, cracked lips. Her calves burned, and there was an ache in her side, all evidence of the punishing pace at which she'd pushed herself. Without removing her concentration from the manor house, she trudged on until she was at the imposing front door. There she lifted the knocker, slapping it against the oak door several times.
The door was flung open, and Mabry glowered at her.
“Please, fetch the viscount and the earl. Lord Gabriel is dreadfully ill and is in desperate need of a doctor.”
Everything after that moved with alarming speed. Within a few minutes it seemed as if the entire household had been roused and the countess had sent for the family’s doctor. The carriage was brought around, and Primrose was soon settled against its squab, with Gabriel’s brother, rumbling toward their cottage.
The earl too had accompanied them, but he had ridden on his horse. The viscount made no attempts at pleasantries, and Primrose was grateful for the silence, for she was too shattered with fear. How long had she left Gabriel? An hour? Two or three? Had he taken a worse turn? Or had his fever broken and her absence alarmed him?
Her torturous musings kept her company until they pulled up to their cottage. She did not wait for assistance but jumped from the equipage and hurried toward the entrance. His brother and father followed at a clipped pace. She pushed open the door and rushed to their chamber.
A cry of alarm slipped from her. Gabriel laid too still upon the bed. She rushed over, and it was then she saw the shallow rising of his chest. His skin had a gray cast, and it was then she saw an ugly, mottled purple-red bruise on his left side spreading to his stomach.
George hurried over, came down on the bed and slipped his arm under his brother’s shoulder. “We must get him to the manor as quickly as possible.”
She glanced up. “Is it safe to move him? Will the doctor not come here?”
He did not answer, and a muted fury filled her. “My lord—”
"So you are wed then?" the earl demanded harshly.
She glanced at him, heat burning through her entire body. “We…we were to marry today,” she stammered.
The earl glanced back at his naked son, the tangled sheets, and distaste curled his lips. She lifted her chin, knowing it to be a defiant gesture, but she would not be made to feel shame for their love.
“We will take Gabriel to the manor. George, get the footmen inside. We’ll move him as gently as possible.”
Primrose was then ignored as the earl’s orders were followed with all alacrity. A few minutes later, a blanket swaddled Gabriel was resting comfortably on the squabs in the carriage. Most of his body reposed on the seat, and his head was in her lap.
“He’s not even moaning,” she whispered, peering at George, who showed a stoic mien.
But Primrose saw how he gripped the edge of the seat, how white his knuckles were. Smoothing the damp curls from Gabriel’s forehead, she closed her eyes and prayed for his recovery while the carriage rambled toward Sancrest Manor, and toward a future that had suddenly become uncertain and terrifying.
Primrose’s finger beat a frantic and worried tattoo upon her thighs. She sat in familiar comfort in the smaller sitting room, drying her gown by a roaring fire, awaiting news on Gabriel. They had been back at the manor several hours now, the doctor had been summoned while the countess and the maids of the manor tended to him as best as they could. Several times she had offered assistance, and she had been coldly rebuffed.
Her pride urged her to leave, but the burning love in her soul for Gabriel assured her it was necessary for her to stay, though her presence was painfully unwelcome.
A shuffle sounded, and she glanced up to see the countess entering, lines of strain around her mouth.
Primrose surged to her feet. “Is he…is he well, your ladyship?”
“That is not your concern, Miss Markham.”
“My lady?” Primrose questioned sharply, her heart jerking in alarm. “I am most anxious to know if he is well.”
It was then she saw the countess's eyes were red-rimmed from crying. "My son is fighting for his life because of you," she whispered, raw and furiously.
Primrose flinched. “My lady, I got help as soon—”
The countess waved her hands. “In choosing you, he almost lost his life. Gabriel is the son of an earl. He deserves better, Miss Markham. I hate even to say it, but this terrible moment can be seen as a fortunate turn of events. My son is still free of you. I implore you to let him go. It will take weeks for him to recover from the infection which had been poisoning his blood, and when he is well, I assure you he will marry Lady Beatrice if you are not here.”
Ice slid through Primrose's veins, and she stared at the countess mutely.
“I have no doubt he only offered for you, Miss Markham, because you had compromised his honor by giving him your virtue like a harlot. Of course, he would have tried to do the honorable thing, even if in his heart he wanted to marry Lady Beatrice.”
Primrose felt sick inside.
The countess squared her shoulders, walked over and stiffly handed her an envelope. “Take it, and leave,” the countess said.
Primrose wasn't sure why she took it, shock perhaps. With trembling fingers, she opened the envelope and gasped upon seeing the bank draft for five hundred pounds. A bubble of confusing emotions rushed through her. “Lady Fairclough, I…is this for medical expenses—”
A harsh bark of laughter cut her off. The countess sobered immediately. “Do not be naïve. The money is a…sort of thank you for what you have done for my son. Nothing more. You will take it, leave, and never darken his life again.”
Shame and rage burned through Primrose. "I've worked in this household for four years and three months. I've always been kind, and careful to teach Annabelle subjects that will educate her mind and shape her wonderful character. I've never cheated you or tried to, yet you think me so low in character I need to be paid off? What egregious crime have I committed, but to sincerely love your son? I am not of the lowest birth to be scorned so. My father was a baronet, I was afforded a quality education, and I
was raised as a lady—”
“Yet you’ve proven to only be a social climbing harlot,” the countess spat, her eyes firing with anger and an indefinable emotion.
Harlot. How terrible such a word from Gabriel’s lip filled her with the ache of arousal and tender yearning for wicked delights, but from the countess, a wash of shame stole Primrose’s breath.
The air was thick with anger as the countess stepped a pace closer.
“It was your lack of everything that has my son now fighting for his life. Take the money before I rescind my generosity and kindly depart from my home immediately."
Grief scalded the back of her throat, and her senses reeled. Fighting for his life? Dear Lord, please let it not be so. "You dare accuse me of causing Gabriel's illness. If you had not treated your son so poorly for having only loved me, perhaps we would not be here now," she lashed out, hating that fear and grief caused her to be as thoughtless with her tongue.
“How dare you try to admonish me,” the countess snapped, her eyes flashing with righteous fury. “Get out!”
Primrose skirted around the countess and made her way to the open door. Nearing the entrance, she paused and turned around. “I love Gabriel with my entire soul. I feel broken to know I could not care for him but did what was necessary to save him. I did not let my pride stand in the way of coming to you for help. Please get him the help he needs, but I will not form a bargain where I walk out of his life. He loves me. And I love him with every emotion in my soul. And your prejudice will not change that.”
Then she dropped the banknote on the carpet, turned, and hurried away from the sitting room. She would leave as the countess demanded. Primrose had her pride, but she would be back. Every day to check that he was well, every day to verify that he was alive. It would haunt her mind to be even a night away from him, not knowing if he lived or if he'd fought the fever ravaging through him now. It would kill her to wait hours alone in their bed, wondering if while she was warm, he was cold, empty, and slipping away from her.
But she would not be that weak, terrified person. Though her throat burned and her fingers trembled, Primrose snapped her spine straight, and trudged through the snow for miles, refusing to ask for a carriage since none had been offered. She used the shortened paths through the woods until she reached their home. There she removed her boots and coat and stripped until she was only in her chemise. Then she crawled under the covers and cried.
Chapter 8
Several hours later, Primrose tossed restlessly in her bed, unable to sleep. The night air was chilled, and despite a fire being lit, and she covered with many blankets, she could not get warm. At times she hugged her pillow and screamed her fears into its comforting depth. Other times she came up on her knees, sinking into the too soft mattress, and prayed for Gabriel’s safe recovery.
The next day, she trudged through the snow, along the path back to Sancrest Manor. Once there, Primrose was denied entrance, and the shock of it rendered her motionless for several seconds. “Please Mr. Mabry,” she implored of the butler. “Please tell me if the doctor gave any good report.”
His kind face softened. "The family is still keeping vigil, Miss Markham. It seemed he'd been wounded in the war, and a piece of shrapnel had not been removed, and it had been infecting his blood and weakening his organs."
Pain and terror clawed at the back of her throat. “Please Mr. Mabry, let me in,” she whispered hoarsely, each breath a painful undertaking. “I must see him for myself.”
He straightened. “I have strict orders from her ladyship, Miss Markham, and I must heed them.” Then he closed the door in her face.
Primrose turned and went to the servants' entrance where she was met with similar resistance from the cook, Mrs. Green. Humiliation burned through her, but she still tried to coax Mrs. Green to allow her entry. Primrose was firmly denied with a fierce scolding.
Primrose went home. And returned the next day. She pounded the knocker and waited, staring at the heavy oak door for what felt like an eternity before it opened again, and the butler appeared. He sighed and with embarrassing finality, once more closed the door in her face.
She did not bother to appeal to the other servants, though for a wild moment she considered hiking up her skirts and using the lattice in an attempt to reach the side balcony. Refusing to succumb to despair, she returned to their cottage and drowned herself in transcribing his story more neatly, wanting it to be ready for him when he returned home. It was hard not to give in to despair. Instead, she hoped and had faith, dwelling on the strength of the man she loved with her heart.
The next day she trekked along a path that was becoming too familiar to Sancrest Manor. This time she saw his brother George pacing by the side gardens, his ordinarily impeccable appearance decidedly disheveled. Anxiety knotted low in her stomach. He faltered when he saw her, and she made her way to him. They stared at each other in silence, and the torment in his eyes rendered her speechless. She hated him then, and the countess with her heart, for she should be with Gabriel, offering him her comfort and love.
"What does the doctor report?" her lips barely moved, but he seemed to hear her for he closed his eyes as if pained.
“My brother is still fevered and senseless. He has more than one doctor attending him. He’ll require surgery.”
She clasped her hands in front of her stomach to keep them from trembling. “I should be with him.”
“I urge you to stop visiting. Your persistence does you no credit for you will only distress my mother. I will send word to your home if Gabriel—”
“When,” she said. “You’ll send word when he recovers.”
Ignoring her passionate outburst, George continued, "Verity and Mother take turns at his bedside. And Lady Beatrice has been most kind to sit with him and hold his hand.”
Primrose flinched, but she was happy to know he received comfort and support even if not from her. Without offering a rebuttal, she turned away, truly helpless to stop the pain cleaving her heart in two.
“Miss Markham?”
She closed her eyes tightly, struggled for composure, then turned around. “My lord?”
“He calls for you in his delirium,” the viscount said with a grimace as if his words should offer some ease.
She flinched as if she’d been struck. “And you deny him the comfort of my presence?”
“It’s for the best,” he said flatly.
“I’ll not forgive you,” she whispered fiercely, uncaring tears streamed down her cheeks.
“I assure you I would never ask for it,” he replied with an arrogant sneer to his lips.
She left without a retort. And Primrose returned the next day. Before she knocked the door swung open, and the butler peered down at her with a slight frown.
“Miss Markham, please—” he began, then paused, considering her for several moments. “I’m pleased to say Lord Gabriel’s fever broke this morning. An operation was performed yesterday afternoon by two doctors, and he is being monitored closely to ensure he remains on the road to recovery.”
She slapped a hand over her lips to prevent her cry of relief. “Truly?”
He smiled, kindly. “Truly, Miss Markham. Now please leave before her ladyship knows you are here once again. I will send one of the maids with news to you should his situation take a turn for the worse.”
Primrose rushed forward and hugged his portly figure fiercely. “Thank you!” Then she turned around and ran and ran until she reached the beaten path leading to the woods. There she leaned against a massive horse chestnut tree, and slid against the rough bark until her backside was planted in the snow. Her laugh rang through the woods as indescribable relief and joy pierced her heart.
All would now be well, and her love would soon be home in her arms.
Three weeks later, Primrose pushed from the bed weakly, groaning as her stomach roiled. She struggled from the bedroom, down the small hallways, and wrenched the front door open. Once outside, she took a deep breath of the
crisp morning air. It did not help; on a gag, she dashed toward the gardens and emptied the content of her stomach into the holly bush.
It was foolish to continue denying her condition. Not when the kindly widow cleaning the cottage a few days ago had remarked that ‘the first’ was always the hardest. Her eyes had been kind and non-judgmental, but her words had been a blow to Primrose. She was with child. She was unmarried. And she was alone.
Gabriel had not returned home, nor had she heard any word from him or the estate. A few mornings she’d tried to walk the snow-covered path to Sancrest Manor but had been too ill to make the journey. Only yesterday the village midwife had confirmed her pregnancy, and at first, joy had blasted through her, to now slowly be replaced with a peculiar terror.
Why hadn’t Gabriel come home?
The very idea that he could be persuaded away from her had been sitting on her shoulder like the heaviest of boulders. The countess’s promise that he would find Lady Beatrice vastly more suitable once he’d had the chance to properly court her, haunted Primrose’s dreams and waking moments.
She was without connections and money, and there was a child on the way. Pushing away the crippling doubt, she made her way into the cottage and efficiently stoked the embers of the dying fire. Tea was soon prepared, and she consumed two cups with dried toast, relieved that her sensitive stomach seemed of the mind to keep food in today.
After eating a more substantial meal of beef and potato stew, for the first time in several days, she made the trip back to Sancrest Manor. A peal of laughter and joy rode the air and tugged her to the eastern lawns instead of the massive oak front door. Primrose made her way around to the side gardens and down the cobbled pathway, careful of the melting snow. Primrose faltered at the sight which greeted her, confusion bubbling in her throat.
