One Wild Winter's Eve

by Anne Barton

  Belle sighed. “No one should have to choose between family and love.” She wrapped an arm around Rose’s waist and slowly guided her up the stairs. “Now that you’re home, everything is going to be all right—you’ll see.”

  It was difficult to discern who Belle was trying to convince—Rose, or herself.

  Because they both knew that if Owen and Charles didn’t return to them, nothing would ever be right again.

  By the time they reached Rose’s room, a fire had already been lit. A maid waited at the end of the bed, a thick dressing gown at the ready. Both the maid and Belle fussed over Rose as they peeled off her wet gown, chemise, and stockings. She slid her arms into the soft warmth of her dressing gown and sank into a chair before the fire while Belle draped a heavy quilt over her lap.

  Tea arrived, and Anabelle poured a cup for Rose and placed it in her hands. “Drink and have a bite to eat as well. There’s much I wish to ask you, but I suspect Olivia and Daphne will be here any moment, and you’d only have to repeat the story for them. Let us hope that Daphne arrives first, because we both know Olivia will not be content to wait for answers.”

  Rose’s heart ached at the mention of her sister. She’d missed Olivia most of all. And now she’d have to tell her that she’d found Mama—only to discover that she was not at all well. For Belle’s sake, Rose smiled and pretended to nibble on a roll, but her stomach rebelled at the thought of eating. Just swallowing her tea proved difficult, and her head was in something of a fog.

  Belle’s shrewd gaze raked over her face. “You’re still shivering. I’ll have Maggie fetch another quilt.”

  It didn’t help. Rose was still shaking when the doctor arrived, and he wasted no time examining her. “I felt perfectly fine this morning,” she said.

  “Prior to hitting your head and falling into the river?” He tenderly probed the knot along her hairline and frowned when she winced. “A nasty bump. You need rest,” he said sternly, “and plenty of it. If you don’t already have the devil of a headache, you will soon. And you have the beginnings of a fever as well. Little wonder.” He shot her a kindly smile. “Nothing a few days in bed won’t cure.”

  He went to put his stethoscope into his bag, when shouts sounded from the floor below. Owen’s commanding voice stood out among the rest. “We’ll take him to the guest room.”

  Rose swallowed. She suspected Owen was talking about Charles, and though her heart rejoiced at the possibility he was downstairs, if he couldn’t walk himself to the guest room, that was very bad news indeed. She flipped back the coverlet and stepped into her slippers. At the doctor’s incredulous look, she lifted her chin. “Come with me, please. I have a feeling your services are needed by someone in worse condition than I.”

  She swept past him, rushed to the second floor landing, and gasped. Charles was there. And he looked…  horrid.

  Owen, Ben, and a couple of footmen struggled to carry him up the stairs. His eyes were closed, his face scraped raw, and his mouth pressed into a thin, grim line. He must have abandoned his greatcoat and jacket somewhere, for his torso was clad in nothing but a blood-stained shirt, confirming Rose’s worst fears.

  Her head throbbed, and she gripped the banister to keep from falling. “Charles,” she called out. Owen and Ben looked up at her, but Charles’s head only lolled from side to side.

  “He’s been shot,” she said to the doctor. “Tell me what you need, and I’ll fetch it at once.”

  “What I need is for you to return to your bedchamber and try to rest. Trust me to care for him.”

  But she couldn’t leave Charles. Not now. “I promise to stay out of your way,” she said. “I just want to be at his bedside in case he wakes.”

  Doctor Loxton ignored her pleas and frowned at the men on the stairs. “Try not to jostle him so. With each step you take, he’s losing blood.”

  Ben, who had his arms hooked beneath Charles’s shoulders, scowled at the doctor. “Consider it lucky if we don’t drop him. He’s bloody heavy.”

  The doctor turned to Rose. “Which room?”

  “The second door on the right,” she said, relieved when he scurried down the hall, presumably to prepare for Charles’s arrival.

  On the stairs, Owen shot Ben a sharp look. “Easy on the last few steps, Foxburn. It’s the least we can do after he took a bullet for me.”

  Tears burned at the back of Rose’s eyes. So Charles had saved Owen’s life. She prayed it wouldn’t cost him his.

  She stood on the landing, determined to see the extent of his injuries for herself.

  When at last the men reached the top, they paused to catch their breath. She reached for one of Charles’s hands and pressed it between hers, wishing he didn’t feel so cold. So lifeless. He showed no signs of waking, but she spoke to him anyway. “You’re safe now. The doctor’s going to help you. I’m here too, and I won’t leave you.”

  It might have been her imagination, but she could have sworn that his eyelids twitched at the sound of her voice. Her gaze went to the wound in his shoulder that oozed blood. The hole in his shirt revealed torn flesh and muscle. She swayed on her feet.

  “Step back,” Owen said. “Let us take him to Loxton.”

  Rose released Charles’s hand and pressed her shoulder blades to the wall, grateful for its solid support as she made room for the men to pass.

  In the foyer below, more voices—feminine ones this time—called out. She recognized Olivia’s at once. “Rose? Oh dear God, it is you!” Her sister bounded up the stairs, a blur of blue silk, and pulled her into a fierce hug. “When Belle sent word you were home safe and sound…  well, I don’t mind telling you I wept for joy. Are you really well, though? You look rather pale to me.”

  “I’m fine.”

  Olivia shot her a skeptical glance and turned to Daphne, who managed to hurry up the stairs all while managing to look the very picture of grace and elegance. “Does she look well to you?”

  Daphne cupped Rose’s cheeks and smiled. “I’m so glad you’re home, but I’m afraid I share your sister’s concern. I know you are worried about Mr. Holland, but he’s in capable hands. There’s not a thing we can do for him at the moment.”

  Rose gulped. Being surrounded by all these people who loved and cared about her was both overwhelming and suffocating. They were only trying to help, of course, but how could any of them possibly understand? “Perhaps you’re right,” she said softly. “Still, I’d like to go to him now.”

  “What are you doing out of bed?” Tsking at Rose, Anabelle walked briskly up the stairs and joined them on the landing.

  Anabelle’s knowing gaze seemed to peer deep into Rose’s soul. Olivia, her usually fearless sister, swallowed, looking frightfully worried and, at the same time, slightly betrayed, as though the secrets Rose had kept wounded her. And Daphne, with her gift for nursing, watched her with an assessing eye, seeming to realize that Rose was not, in fact, well.

  And all of the sudden, it was too much. She closed her eyes to shut them out. To shut the world out. That’s what she did, after all. When things became difficult, she retreated and hid.

  Ghastly images filled her mind, playing themselves out, over and over. Lady Yardley’s arms tangled about Charles’s neck as they lay on the settee in the library. Charles trudging through the snow, leaving behind a lonely trail of footprints—and her. The deafening sound of the pistol firing in the prison and the bitter hatred in the guard’s eyes as she and Charles ran through the dark and putrid prison. Her mother’s hospital bed, eerily empty. The shockingly cold rush of water covering her head as she plunged into the Thames. Worst of all, the sight of Charles being carried up the stairs looking more corpse than human.

  She thought she’d grown stronger, that she could face any heartbreak she was forced to bear without hiding from the world again.

  But darkness pulled at her, seductive and silent.

  She would not succumb to it. She couldn’t do that to her family or Charles, in the unlikely event he surviv
ed. She couldn’t do that to herself.

  Her sister and dear friends were right here. Even now, she heard them calling out to her. “Rose, darling?” Through the dizzying parade of scenes in her head, Daphne’s voice rang clear. “Look at me.”

  Rose forced her eyes open. She had to tell her—tell them all—that she wasn’t going to run from the pain and hurt again. “Forgive me, I—”

  The words died on her lips, and her world went black.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Groom: (1) A person who works with horses in a stable. (2) The man one is about to marry and live with, happily ever after…

  Through the fog, Rose stirred at a raucous noise. It was like thunder but less random. More like…  snoring. Of the excessively loud variety—and definitely not hers.

  She opened her eyes and gazed around her sweetly familiar bedchamber. Olivia dozed in a chair beside her bed, her neck bent at an awkward angle. The snoring wasn’t coming from her, however, but rather from Owen, who was sprawled on the settee in front of the fire, his legs hanging off the end as though he were Gulliver in Lilliput.

  Rose pushed herself to sitting, surprised to find that while her head was still oddly heavy, she felt much improved, physically, at least.

  Well enough to check on Charles. She swallowed, praying to God that she wasn’t too late.

  Silently, she slipped from the bed, tiptoed past Olivia, and glided around Owen. Barefoot, she padded down the hall and swung open the door of the guest room. Daphne sat in a chair by the window reading, which Rose wanted to believe was a good sign. It must mean that he was resting comfortably for the moment…  or that there was nothing else to be done for him.

  As she rushed to his bedside, Daphne arched a brow at her. “You know you should not be up.”

  “Yes,” Rose said. “And you know that nothing would keep me away from him.”

  “You love him.” Daphne smiled radiantly. “That changes everything.”

  “Indeed.” Rose swept her fingertips across his brow, then leaned over him and pressed her lips to his cheek. His shoulder had been expertly bandaged, and only a little spot of red had seeped through.

  “He looks better,” she whispered hopefully, “but you must tell me the truth. How is he? Will he recover?”

  “I’m almost sure of it.”

  “Almost?”

  “One always has to watch out for fever, but your Mr. Holland is strong, and his color is much improved. The bullet went straight through his shoulder without damaging the bone. He is very fortunate.”

  Rose nearly snorted. “You would not say that if you knew what we’ve been through.”

  “Perhaps not.” Daphne linked an arm through Rose’s, put a finger to her lips, and led her to the door. “Sleep is the best thing for him right now. Just as it is for you.”

  Rose didn’t feel tired but knew better than to argue with Daph when she was in no-nonsense nursing mode. “Will you promise to tell me the moment he wakes? And let me know if there’s any change in his condition?”

  “Of course I will,” Daphne said soberly. “I promise.”

  Mollified, Rose let Daphne escort her back to her room. “There’s no one else I’d rather have tending to Charles than you,” Rose admitted. “Not even Dr. Loxton has a knack for healing people like you do.”

  “Why, that may be the nicest compliment I’ve ever received. But the thing that will truly heal Charles is love. The love you have for each other is stronger than any medicine.”

  Rose sighed. “I hope so.”

  When they entered her bedchamber, Daphne smirked at the sight of Olivia and Owen sleeping. “With nursemaids like these, it’s a wonder you survived the night.”

  Olivia bolted upright in her chair and gaped at the empty bed. “Where’s Rose?”

  “What?” Owen tumbled off the settee. “Good God. She’s missing again?”

  “I’m right here.” She waved from the doorway. “And I don’t intend to run off anytime soon—unless you deem it necessary.”

  Before she knew what was happening, Olivia and Owen had sandwiched her in a hug so tight she could scarcely breathe.

  “I’m off to keep an eye on our other patient.” Eyes twinkling, Daphne added, “Olivia and Owen, you might strive to do a better job caring for yours.”

  “Heavens, yes,” Olivia exclaimed. “Back into bed with you. I’ll ring for some breakfast, and—”

  “While I have you both here,” Rose interjected, “could we have a little sibling chat?”

  “Does this concern Holland?” Owen moaned. “If so, I’m going to need a drink of brandy.”

  “No, actually,” Rose explained. “I have some news.”

  Olivia gulped. “Are you with child? Because if you are, I shall need some brandy as well.” This earned a scowl from Owen, and Rose was suddenly exceedingly glad that she was not in fact, pregnant.

  “It’s news about Mama.” Rose could tell that she’d startled them. Olivia’s hands flew to her cheeks, and Owen raked a hand through his hair. “She’s here in London, but quite ill, in a hospital.”

  “What does she want from us?” Owen snapped. “Sympathy? Money?”

  “Neither. She didn’t want us to find out about her illness—consumption—at all. But I went in search of her, and I’m glad I did.”

  “I don’t understand,” Olivia said. “I thought you were in Bath.”

  “I was, and much has happened. I’ll explain it all, but I wanted you to know about Mama. I don’t think she has much time left, and though she doesn’t feel she deserves your forgiveness, I think it would give her some peace in her final days. It might give you peace as well.”

  “Jesus,” Owen muttered. “After all these years. Is she still the same?”

  “In some ways, but also different. She tried to help prove Charles’s innocence by writing a note containing information we could use to persuade Lady Yardley to drop the false charges she made against him. Only, the note was destroyed when I fell into the Thames.”

  Olivia paced. “Then we must go to her, and have her write out the statement again.”

  “No, do not let that be the reason for your visit,” Rose said. “Besides, Mama is weak. Just writing a note may require more strength than she has.”

  “Why can’t she just tell us the information about Lady Yardley?”

  “I think she would, but I preferred not to know the sordid details.”

  “That is the difference between you and me,” Olivia said with a sigh. “I prefer to know all the sordid details.”

  Rose smiled and turned to Owen. “I know you’re still angry with Mama, and I would never blame you for that. I doubt she would either.”

  “I simply can’t understand how she could abandon her two young daughters.” Owen shook his head.

  “You don’t have to be angry on my behalf—or Olivia’s—any longer. Thanks to you, we’re grown and happy. Well, I’m still working on the happy part, but our little family has done rather well in spite of all the tragedy we endured.”

  “Yes, I suppose you’re right,” Owen said. “You usually are. Or you were rather, before you started breaking people out of prisons and stealing away on ships.”

  “To be fair, I had a ticket.”

  “Oh, I confess I cannot wait to hear all about your adventures, Rose,” Olivia proclaimed. “You make mine look positively tame by comparison.”

  “No one could accuse you of being tame. I cannot wait to hear your adventures in Egypt.”

  Owen growled, signaling it was too soon to jest about the events of the past few weeks. “There’s much left for us to discuss,” he said to Rose, “and for you to decide. But I think our first priority must be clearing Charles’s name.”

  Rose flung her arms around his neck. “Thank you, Owen.”

  He grunted softly. “Only because I don’t want to be accused of harboring a fugitive.”

  “Of course,” she said quickly.

  “He may have saved my life, but that’s
not what changed my opinion of him.”

  “No? What did then?”

  “The fact that he did it for you. He was willing to risk his life in order to save somebody you loved. That’s the kind of devotion that you, my dear sister, deserve.”

  “I would be fortunate to have him.”

  “Several issues must still be sorted out. Even if we’re able to persuade Lady Yardley to drop the charges against Charles, your reputation…  well, I’m afraid it’s destroyed.”

  Olivia piped up. “Having an impeccable reputation is overrated.”

  Owen arched a brow. “How would you know?”

  Ignoring him, Olivia seized Rose’s hand and squeezed it. “Follow your heart, the ton be damned.”

  “I tried that tack,” Rose said, “and as a result, Charles was imprisoned and nearly killed. The worst part is that his dream of owning land seems farther away than ever.”

  Owen rubbed his chin. “That’s why he was going to America?”

  Rose nodded. “He was determined to make something of himself. For us.”

  “I can’t believe you almost sailed across the Atlantic and left us—without saying good-bye.” The bewildered hurt on her brother’s face made Rose want to cry.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t see any other way, and I was afraid you wouldn’t let me go.”

  “Selfishly, I would have done everything in my power to stop you.”

  “And now?”

  He heaved a sigh that nearly broke her heart. “I will leave decisions about your future to you.”

  Olivia threw up her hands dramatically. “What I would have given to hear those words not so long ago. Why do the youngest siblings always have it the easiest?”

  “Because brave sisters like you blaze trails before us.”

  “For the love of all that’s holy,” moaned Owen, “please let us be finished with the trail blazing.”

  Olivia smiled saucily. “Never.”

  And Rose began to believe that things just might work out for her and Charles.

  If she didn’t know better, she’d think that all their trials had been the work of a sadistic, if ultimately benevolent, fairy godmother.