A laugh bubbled up from her nearly frozen lips. Why couldn't life be like that, bumpy, dreadful, and then all clear?
She sat up, limbs shaking. Now, both slippers were gone. Her big toe popped free from a hole in her stockings. The digit looked purple. If she didn't get warm, she would die.
Rubbing her foot, she scanned the landscape. A cottage sat off in the distance. Puffy grey smoke left its chimney. Could she get help there? What if darkness lived there?
Shivering, she tried to think of another option. She wouldn't make it back to Tomàs land or even the house. Not this time. There was no other option but this cottage and strangers.
With all her strength, she lifted and started toward the house.
The limestone brick looked familiar. It was the vicarage for Clanville. Old Reverend Playfair. He'd help. He helped everyone.
The old man knew everyone. He might know Sarah. Did the girl live?
Amora pressed toward the vicarage. Her toes tingled. Her fingers must have fallen off, for she felt nothing pounding upon the door.
A baby's cries sounded inside. Maybe the vicar was busy. Her head hurt. She could go no further. With all her might, she knocked again. This time the door opened.
A man holding a child stood in the threshold. His deep brown hair. Cheery smile. The way he held the babe swaddled in a green pinafore. It was familiar.
"Mrs. Norton?"
The vicar. The one who prayed for her during that awful night when she miscarried. The one who said he believed her. "Vi-car Wil…"
Her teeth chattered so badly she couldn't finish. She slumped against the threshold.
"Mrs. Norton, you're hurt. Come inside." He grabbed her about the waist and towed her into the vicarage.
Juggling the baby, he tugged her into the parlor and made her sit in front of the fireplace. "Mrs. Turnbill! Mrs. Turnbill!"
Stooping next to her, he scooted out of his jacket, and placed it about her shoulder. "Come on, Jack, the good woman needs a hug. Let's keep her warm."
Bundled in his jacket, she felt his hands rubbing her back. His warm breath cascaded her fingers.
A short plump woman maybe Mother's height poked her head into the room. "Yes, Reverend. Do you need… Oh, my."
"Mrs. Norton has had an accident." He massaged each of Amora's palms, splaying them against the carpet, pointing them toward the onyx iron grate of his firebox. "Get some blankets. Then fetch a doctor."
"Right away, sir." The woman threw up her hands and ran. The sound of pattering feet disappeared, eclipsed by the crackle of the fire.
"No doctor." Amora's fingers trembled in spite of the man's effort. The whitewashed walls and emerald sofa became blurry. She touched her face, but felt nothing.
Vicar Wilson craned his head to the door. "My housekeeper needs to hurry. You look--"
"Like a drowned rat?" She pushed at her hair. Locks fell everywhere. At least she was too cold to feel her cheeks darken.
"Far from it. Just cold. Very blue."
He set the boy down near her. The vicar took his fingers and rubbed her face. "You are very cold."
The little boy reached up and grabbed a fist full of her dripping locks.
"Jack, this is my friend, Mrs. Norton." He cooed at the baby, then turned back to her. "Did you get caught in the storm?"
She smiled at the baby, but her teeth rattled the truth. Blinking, she stared into the minister's walnut colored eyes and sank down onto the jute rug. With a thick tongue, she said, "You…y' believed me without proof."
Her eyes closed, and the only person to believe her drifted away.
Barrington tugged at his horse's reins. Another pass along the bank might reveal Amora. His pulse exploded within his veins. So close to saving her on the cliff, so close. Why couldn't he have gotten her away from the precipice before it crumbled? Why did she push him? They could've fallen together. He might have been able to free her from the undercurrents. Or they could've died together.
He cupped a hand over his eyes and scanned the river. Nothing. No raven hair. No floating body.
His spectacles fogged in the chilly air. He couldn't accept the sense of loss filling him. "God, don't take her from me. I have to make things right. Give me one more chance. Just one."
He brought the horse around again. The gelding obeyed without question. Barrington's moments of swaying in the saddle disappeared. My how all of his training returned. If only he'd been taught to be a better husband.
His father taught him nothing. The man married his mother, a wealthy shopkeeper's daughter just for her dowry when Grandfather cut him off. Though legally and lawfully wedded, his father never came home except between gambling excursions, never defended her from gossip or the subtle taunts of her black race, never loved her like she deserved.
The man rubbed his mother's nose in each of his scandals until Grandfather stepped in and dealt with the situation, banishing the ne'er-do-well to the continent. Grandfather ruled the family with an iron grip. The Norton name became respectable again, but managing under fear and little love didn't seem quite right either.
The clouds started to gather, blocking what little sun the day possessed. He needed help. If she survived the river, Amora would die of exposure. A larger search party was required. The old vicarage was over the next hill. He'd get them involved. For what it was worth, the whole of Clanville needed to find his precious girl.
Barrington jumped off the horse and ran up the short drive. Before he could knock, the door opened. An older woman ran past him. She turned and clutched at his coat. "You there. Get on your master's horse and ride to town and get the doctor. He's probably at the tavern."
He closed his eyes for a moment. He'd been away from Clanville so long, folks must've forgotten their mulatto neighbor. "Ma'am, I can't. I have an emergency. My wife fell into the river. I need to get people to come search for her. Can you run for help?"
Her light eyes widened. She clung more tightly to his coat. "Your wife? She's inside. Very poor shape. Vicar Wilson's with her."
She let go and took off down the path.
Barrington marched inside. "Wilson, Amora!"
"In here, Norton."
He followed the voice and found them in a parlor. Amora lay wrapped in a blanket, like a meat pie tucked in a browned crust. Wilson rubbed her blue fingers as a fire blazed. A little girl blew on the wool covered lump where toes should be. A small boy sat near her back pulling locks of her hair. The little family attempted to save his wife.
Dropping to the ground, Barrington whipped off his hat and gloves and mimicked the minister's action with Amora's other hand.
She was alive or maybe just barely. God gave him one more chance to make amends.
He cleared his throat. "How long has she been here? I've been scouring the woods.
Wilson stood up and paced. "Not long. My housekeeper took off her soaked gown and put her on one of my shirts. I don't know how to get her warmer." The man frowned. He must genuinely care.
"Heat. Body heat. A wounded soldier would die if his core didn't stay warmer than his extremities." Barrington scooped Amora up into his arms. "Is there a bedroom or chamber?"
The man rubbed his jaw. "Becky, keep Jackson safe. Come with me, Mr. Norton."
Amora lay still, almost lifeless within his arms. His poor girl. How could he still breathe with his heart outside of his ribs?
The vicar climbed up a steep flight of stairs, and then pushed open a door to a room on the right. Taking the candle from the sconce in the hall, he lit up a lantern on a table, then went to work on the fire.
Once a blaze roared, he plodded to the threshold. "I'll be outside waiting for the doctor." Wilson slammed the door.
Barrington laid Amora onto the mattress. Making quick work of his buttons, he thrust off his coat and shirt. Throwing each boot a different direction, he returned to her, picked her up, and crawled into the bed with her.
Digging beneath her wrapping, he freed her of the coarse shirt and tugged her
tightly against his chest, molding her frail limbs against him. He rubbed her frozen skin until the delicate porcelain felt as warm as the woolen blanket. He let his breath heat her cheeks as he played with her fingers, working them from side to side to renew the blood flow. With his legs, he trapped her toes, coddling them, using friction to return her feet to life.
She was lovely and delicate. All his, always his. And his foolhardy quest for the truth made her want to die. What kind of love had he given her?
His hands curved about her abdomen, tucking her as close to him as possible. When she felt as warm as he, Barrington snuggled with her beneath the blankets. He hoped she knew he was there, believing in her, trying to save her life.
Chapter Four: Waiting for Amora to Awaken
Cravat flopping from hastily dressing, Barrington paced back and forth. He leaned from side to side against the wall outside of the bedroom where Amora fought for her life. His head ached as it kept spinning images of her falling, of her dying. He'd watched the love of his life slip into the water, and then disappear. She was lost to him in that moment.
He closed his palms. They were still raw as if they held her icy toes and fingers.
"Some tea, sir." Mrs. Turnbill, the vicar's housekeeper held a tray in front of him, her eye's focused on the tray. She must've realized he wasn't a servant.
The scent of chamomile and fresh biscuits wafted to his nose, but he couldn't eat. Amora wasn't, so he wouldn't. "No, thank you."
Hunger meant nothing right now. He'd stay alert on post until she awakened.
Mrs. Tomàs sat in a chair. Her gaze never left the dark stained door. She waved the housekeeper away as well. Her dark black eyes looked glassy.
He had no words of comfort to offer. Or blame. This was Barrington's fault.
Mrs. Turnbill withdrew, stopping only to whisper to Wilson as she passed him on the stairs.
The vicar tugged his arms behind his back. "Why don't you both come down and sit in the parlor? It's more comfortable. The doctor said he'd come for us once she awakens."
The man's tone sounded chipper. But how could the vicar be confident Amora would recover? He didn't count the seconds between her labored breaths. Nor did he feel the death chill emanating from her neck and bosom.
Barrington rubbed his face. The memory of her giving up came into focus, repeating each time he closed his eyes. Recovery had as much to do with attitude as it did the wound. Right now, his girl ached. She was in enough pain to jump off a cliff rather than be with him.
The vicar pivoted from Barrington to Mrs. Tomàs. "Please, ma'am, at least you."
Digging into her reticule, Mrs. Tomàs found a lacy handkerchief and wiped her eyes. "No, I need to be here. My daughter hates doctors and might be frightened when she awakens. Hopefully, she'll want her mother."
That wouldn't be likely. Barrington righted the buttons on his waistcoat. "I'll be here if she's confused."
Wilson stepped closer to Mrs. Tomàs's seat, folded his arms and leaned against the chair rail molding decorating the wall. "How did Mrs. Norton end up in the river?"
"She fell. The rain made the cliff unsteady. It was an accident."
Rubbing his jaw, Wilson looked up toward the whitewashed ceiling. "This is sacred ground, Mr. Norton. It's good to tell the truth here."
"I don't lie. The cliff gave way. She shoved me so I wouldn't fall too."
"Why was she on the cliff in the middle of a storm?"
Barrington gazed at Mrs. Tomàs, but she picked at the edging of her handkerchief as she shifted within her chair.
"Fine. Hide things. Mrs. Norton told me before she fainted."
In two steps, Barrington overshadowed the man, crowding him against the wall. "What did she say?"
Wilson didn't flinch. He met Barrington's gaze. "You believed me without proof. That was her exact quote before she succumbed."
Barrington pulled back and dimmed his eyes.
"Is this your way of dealing with things? I told you your wife was in trouble. I convinced her to confide in you, and you didn't have the decency to believe her."
Dagger in his gut, sharp with the same accusations he'd told himself as he searched for Amora, he turned and put a hand on her door. "You are right, Wilson. I failed her. I failed."
He swallowed the self-pity forming in his soul. "I let her down, again. Is that what you want to hear too, Mrs. Tomàs?"
"It's not your fault." His mother-in-law's voice warbled. "I convinced her never to tell, but the truth always comes out."
"No one can bottle these memories up, not of something this traumatic." The cold clinical tone of Wilson's words twisted the dagger a little more. "She suffers from it every day, bottling it inside for your benefit."
Barrington wanted to put forth an excuse, some legal brief explaining how he got things so wrong, but even a lousy barrister, one without his skills knew a losing case. He slapped at his neck, pounding again his sentence. Guilty. Guilty of negligence, guilty of not seeing and believing the best girl in the world, guilty of withholding his love in fear of being made a fool.
The sounds of Wilson's low heels moved again, the slight pacing he'd done every hour on the hour. Anxiety lay beneath his calm exterior. He stopped and turned toward Barrington. "Though Mrs. Norton's been disappointed, I sense there is strength inside too. She walked a good distance to come to me."
Barrington looked upon the reverend's lean face trying hard to mask the agitation at some other man laying claims to Amora. "What do you mean?"
"She smiled at my son as she trembled. She sacrificed herself for you. The memories haven't robbed her of a sense of loving others."
Loving others. Barrington had thought it a flaw, Amora's needling him so much about working too much, needing to know his every whereabouts because of her fear of something happening to him. It wasn't a flaw but a mask of her symptoms of distress. Why hadn't he seen it?
"Mr. Norton," the vicar said, his voice steady and low, "She is strong, but everyone has weaknesses and can make wrong choices."
Amora, the girl he left before going to war, was very strong-willed. Witty and gifted, so different from the woman he married. Yet, the strength in Amora's voice as she remembered the Sarah person, another captive, surprised him. And only when Barrington offered to help find the girl did Amora stop fighting his help. Perhaps finding this woman could focus Amora on becoming well. "Vicar, how do you know so much about this?"
"I counseled a few women who suffered terrible abuses. The night of Mrs. Norton's miscarriage, I listened to her fevered delusions. I've heard similar stories. No one lies about things that dark."
Mrs. Tomàs snorted into her handkerchief. "What happened to the other girls?"
Wilson lowered his head and swiped at his brow. "Many couldn't endure the shame. Alienation made them make wrong choices."
Wrong choices. Barrington had made a series of wrong choices the past week, maybe the last five years. "I should've let you help." He stoked the panels of her door and wanted nothing more than to rush inside and hold her again. Everything needed to take second place to Amora. "I almost lost her today, could still lose her."
The knob turned, and the doctor stood in the threshold. "She's asking for you."
Barrington tugged at his cravat and marched forward, but the man held out a hand, blocking entrance.
Ale wafted from the doctor's breath and the pores upon his baldhead. The stench twitched Barrington's nose, reminding him of the tavern in town and the bushes out back, ones from which he'd dragged his intoxicated father. "Out of the way, sir. My wife is asking for me."
The doctor lifted a hand to him again. "Mrs. Norton's asking for the vicar."
Wilson peered at Barrington. "Do I have your permission to help Mrs. Norton?"
His fist balled beneath his tailcoat. Barrington took a deep breath. Pride, jealousy. None mattered, only his wife's health. He put a palm on the vicar's shoulder and nodded. "Whatever she needs, she'll have it."
"Good." Wils
on trudged into the room and closed the door.
Barrington pounded one hand into the other. God, let this be the right thing.
Chapter Five: Needing an Ally
Amora opened her eyes as Vicar Wilson stepped into the stark white bedchamber. Her pulse raced as memories of being locked in the tiny chamber at Bath returned. Those vicious doctors.
She swallowed and forced moisture to her dry tongue. "Sir, I am sor…" Wiping her lips of the useless word, she started anew. "I hate that I have caused such an upset to your household."
A smile filled his cheery countenance. "River sprites are always welcome."
He plodded forward and put his hand along the smooth post of the headboard. "Instead of swimming in cold winter waters, you can come talk with me. Or you could give my Becky art lessons. Your mother says you're a good painter."
"A long time ago, I had talent." She shook her head. "When will Mr. Playfair be returning?"
His smile tightened. "The resurrection. My cousin passed last yuletide."
Her heart sank. Only Mr. Playfair knew everyone. Now how could she find Sarah?
"Mrs. Norton, you can talk to me. I can be a confidant just like Playfair."
Feeling alone and confused, she let a renegade tear leak down her face. She rolled to her side before more came.
His footsteps sounded far away. She peered over her shoulder and watched him move toward the door. "I am going to let you rest."
She couldn't. She needed an ally, someone with whom she could reason her thoughts. That person wasn't a virtual stranger like Mr. Wilson or Barrington. "Wait."
"Yes, Mrs. Norton."
There was one person who now claimed to believe her. "Could you send my mother to me?"
The reverend nodded. "You can trust me, too." He slipped from the room.
As if she'd been shot out of a cannon, Mother ran through the threshold. "You wanted me, dear?"
Amora motioned her forward. Though still very beautiful, the woman had aged. Her fingers appeared thin and frail. More silver graced her dark chignon. Time kept moving, even if Amora didn't want it to.
Unveiling Love: A Regency Romance (A London Regency Romantic Suspense Tale Book 2) Page 4
