The Lady's Disgrace (8 page)

“I would like to take a look at your books.”

“Go right ahead, my lady. If I can help in any way, please let me know.”

A few hours later, Abigail peeked at the position of the sun outside the little shop’s window, amazed at how quickly the time had passed. A few people had come and gone, and Mr. Fogel was careful to introduce her to everyone who came in. She enjoyed meeting the townsfolk.

She stretched to loosen her tight muscles and picked up two books from the stack alongside her that seemed interesting. Since she’d already missed luncheon with her husband, if she were to meet him for tea, she must hurry.

After paying her two guineas for a year’s subscription, she waved goodbye to Mr. Fogel and left the library. The streets were not as busy as when she’d arrived earlier. Fewer shoppers strolled along, although the woman who’d sold her the meat pie seemed to still be doing a brisk business. Her stomach growling, Abigail waved at her and crossed the street in the direction of home.

…

Joseph checked his pocket watch one more time. Tea had come and gone, and Abigail had still not returned. He never should have allowed her to walk to the village by herself. Even though it was a straight path, she could have gotten turned around, and now be wandering in circles.

He rose from his desk and strolled to the window, telling himself he wasn’t concerned, but merely wanted to see how the gardener’s work was progressing.

No sign of her coming up the road.

One more turn around the room and he strode to the front door and headed to the stable. “Jackson, please tack up Whitney.”

“Yes, sir.” The stable master laid aside the bridle he’d been working on. While Joseph paced, Jackson readied his horse. His carriage might have been a better idea to retrieve her, but the horse would be faster. The tiny kernel of fear in his belly had grown as the sun began its descent behind the trees.

He jumped on Whitney the minute Jackson brought him out. Since the village wasn’t too far, he hoped the daylight would last long enough to do a thorough search.

Keeping the horse at a trot, he scanned the area, his fear mounting as he grew closer to town with no sign of Abigail. This had to be the path she would have taken, going directly from his house to the main part of town.

About a mile before the stone wall surrounding the town appeared, he spotted a lump on the ground ahead of him, off to the side. Anyone passing by would not have seen it, only if they looked directly at that spot. He squeezed his thighs to kick Whitney into a gallop, leading him over brambles until he reached what looked like a bundle of rags on the ground.

He slid off the horse and dropped to his knees. “Abigail!” She lay on her stomach, her face in a cluster of leaves. As he rolled her over, he noticed a gash on her forehead. He felt for her pulse, releasing the breath he held. Faint, but steady.

The air had chilled, and her clothes were damp from lying on the ground. He needed to get her home and into bed. Scooping her into his arms, he held her close to his chest as he put his foot into the stirrup, then swung his leg over Whitney. Settling her on his lap as best he could, he took off toward home.

“Send for the surgeon,” Joseph barked as he once again strode past a surprised Manning with his wife in his arms. “And ask Mrs. O’Neill to come to my bedchamber at once.”

Joseph hurried up the steps, shifting Abigail in order to open the door. Once inside, he laid her gently on the bed and studied her face.

“Sir, Manning said you wished to see me.” Mrs. O’Neill stopped at the foot of the bed, her fingers pressed against her mouth. “Oh, dear, what has happened to my lady?”

“I’m not quite sure. I found her about a mile from the village. She has a gash on her forehead, which I believe might have come from her falling against a rock. I’ve sent for the surgeon.”

“What can I do, sir?”

“Please light candles. Plenty of them. Then ask Sanders to attend my wife. She’ll need to remove these damp clothes.” He turned as Mrs. O’Neill headed to the door. “Also ask one of the footmen to light a fire. I need it warm in here so her ladyship doesn’t catch a chill.”

“Yes, sir.”

Joseph sat alongside her on the bed and took her cold hand in his. “Abigail, what in heaven’s name did you do?” Even though he knew she couldn’t hear him, it made him feel better to talk to her, pretend she could hear him, assume she would be all right.

“Oh, my poor lady. What is wrong?” Her eyes wide, Sanders approached the bed.

“She apparently fell and struck her head. Please remove her clothes and get her into a warm nightgown.” He turned toward the door. “Where is the blasted footman?”

“Right here, sir,” David, the younger footman said, as he hurried through the doorway carrying a bucket of coal. With efficient movements, he went about starting a fire. In the meantime, Mrs. O’Neill lit a number of candles about the room.

In the candlelight Abigail looked like she was sleeping. He ran his fingers over the scratches from her encounter with the Dinger’s pig. Now she had a gash on her forehead from heaven knew what. He was certainly not doing a very good job of protecting his wife.

“I will await the surgeon downstairs.”

After telling Manning to alert him the minute the surgeon arrived, he cosseted himself in his study. With shaky hands he poured a brandy and wandered to the library window. Nothing but the darkness of night greeted him.

He hadn’t spent a great deal of time studying the area where he’d found Abigail, but couldn’t for the life of him imagine how she’d ended up on the ground with a gash on her forehead. Had she tripped? Twisted her ankle on a rabbit hole? He shook his head, then took another sip of brandy. Once she awoke—and he prayed that would be soon—he would get to the bottom of this.

“Sir?”

Joseph turned as Sanders pushed open the door, Abigail’s frock over her arm. “Yes?”

“I don’t mean to intrude, Mr. Fox, but Mrs. O’Neill thought perhaps we should show this to you.”

“You did not leave her ladyship alone, I hope?”

She shook her head furiously. “No, sir. Mrs. O’Neill is with her.”

He breathed a sigh of relief. “What is it you wish to show me?”

She moved forward and held the dress out to him. “Mrs. O’Neill and I discovered this when we undressed her ladyship.”

He looked at her with raised eyebrows. “You wished to show me her gown?”

“No, sir. I wanted to show you the bullet hole we found in the sleeve.”

Chapter Eight

Joseph felt all the blood leave his face and pool at his feet. “Bullet?” he croaked.

“Yes, sir.” Sanders moved closer and stuck her finger through the hole in the sleeve of Abigail’s silk gown. She wiggled her finger back and forth until Joseph thought he would cast up his accounts.

“Enough!”

“Oh, sorry, sir.” She backed away, her eyes downcast.

Guilt nudged him for taking out his anger and frustration on the poor maid. What was that quote about being the bearer of bad news? After apologizing and dismissing her, he rested his hands on his hips, studying the carpet, his thoughts in a whirl. Turning on his heel, he strode to the window, trying hard to get himself under control.

A bullet? Why would someone shoot Abigail? It must have been a hunter not being careful enough. Bloody hell, this marriage might have saved his wife from scandal, but it was becoming very dangerous to her well-being. She’d been here only three days and injured twice.

“Sir, the surgeon has arrived.” Manning stuck his head around the partially closed door.

“Thank you, Manning.” Joseph grabbed the frock from the chair where Sanders had dropped it, and left the room.

Mrs. O’Neill had done a good job of placing enough candles and two oil lamps around the room. Abigail lay still on the bed, the surgeon on a chair next to her, examining her arm closely. “Mr. Fox, it appears your wife not only hit her head when she fell, but she also sustained a bullet wound to her right arm.” He looked up at Joseph as he strode into the room, the garment still clutched in his fist.

“I have just been informed of that fact. How serious?”

“Only a flesh wound. I found very little in the way of fabric imbedded into the wound. Her maid tells me she wore a silk gown, which is fortunate for her. Silk lessens the depth of the piercing, so there were no nasty pieces of wool to pull from her injury. My main concern is the loss of blood, and the damage to her head.” He returned his attention to his work, then spoke over his shoulder. “How did her ladyship end up with a bullet wound?”

“That is something I intend to find out. She had planned a walk to the village. I worried about her going alone, but it never occurred to me that something like this would happen. You can be assured she will not venture beyond the front door by herself ever again.”

Joseph moved closer to the bed, and took the cloth Mrs. O’Neill had been using to wipe Abigail’s brow. “I will tend to her now. Please prepare one of your elixirs for her ladyship. I am concerned about infection and would like to have something to offer her when she awakens.” The doctor turned to the housekeeper. “Madam, if the household also stores honey, please bring some. It will help to cut down on the infection and reduce the size and appearance of any resulting scar by keeping the skin around the wound moist and soft.”

“Honey?” Joseph asked as Mrs. O’Neill hurried from the room.

“Yes. I spent some years in the Far East during my youth and learned they used honey for dressing wounds. Although no one is quite sure why it helps, it does appear to be very beneficial.”

Sometime later, Joseph jerked awake as his head fell forward. Confused for the moment, he eased his sore muscles from the cramped position he’d been in on the chair next to Abigail’s bed. He ran his palm down his face and shook the sleep from his body. He’d been sitting in the chair for hours.

The faint light of dawn brought Abigail’s features into view, a soft glow from the window casting her skin in a milky white luster. Her dark eyelashes rested on her pale cheeks like chocolate crescents.

While he studied her, she slowly opened her eyes, blinking as if unsure where she was. “Joseph?”

He leaned forward and took her hand in his. “How do you feel, sweetheart?”

“Like I was stomped by a horse. What happened to me?”

Brushing back the errant curls from her forehead, he said, “You had an accident coming back from town. Do you remember anything?”

She licked her lips and furrowed her brows. “I’m not sure. I think I remember walking home, and then, something happened.” She stopped and shook her head slightly, then winced. “Goodness, my head hurts like the devil.”

“You must have fallen and hit your head on a protrusion, most likely a rock.”

“Fell? That explains it. Have I been unconscious?”

“For about ten hours.”

She closed her eyes, leaving him to wonder if he’d lost her again.

“May I have a drink of water?” she asked him through cracked lips.

“Of course.” He reached behind him and retrieved a glass from the dresser.

She reached for the glass. “Ouch!” She sucked in a breath, growing pale. Her head dropped back onto the pillow. “If I fell and hit my head, why does my arm hurt so much?”

He placed the glass on the small table next to her bed and took her hand, not saying anything for a moment. He eyed her as he kissed her knuckles, then ran them over his lips.

“Joseph?”

When he didn’t answer, she said, “What happened to my arm?”

“You were shot.”

“Shot!” Her jaw dropped and her eyes widened. “I was shot?”

He nodded. The guilt at having brought her to a place where she’d had to rescue a child from a charging pig, then suffered a bullet wound, sickened him. Dear God, what she must think of him and his village? The rage that rose up when he’d first heard about the shooting threatened to engulf him again, twisting his gut, causing his hand to itch, wanting to punch his fist into something. Or some
one
.

“I spoke to the constabulary and the decision was that a careless hunter let go a poorly aimed shot.” He held the glass of water to her lips. “Easy. Don’t take too much.”

The constabulary’s announcement did not sit well. The road he’d found Abigail on was not a place where hunters would be found. It was a well-trafficked path used by villagers going to and from town. In fact, the place where he’d found her might not even have been where she had been shot. Well off the beaten path, it was quite possible the shooter had dragged her farther from the road.

Abigail took a few sips and wincing with pain, eased back down again. “I’m quite cold. Can you see about building up the fire?”

Joseph leaned down to kiss her forehead, the method his mother used when he was a youth to determine if he had a fever. Her skin was dry and warm. No doubt infection had set in, rendering her chilled. “I’ll send for more coal, but in the meantime, I’ll bundle you up with blankets.”

“Th-th-ank you.”

After covering her with more bedding, he notified the footman to bring additional coal and asked that he have Mrs. O’Neill prepare more of the elixir for infection.

For the next couple of days, Abigail shivered and demanded more heat, then threw off the many blankets he’d tucked around her and attempted to remove her night gown.

Joseph vacillated from pacing the room in agitation to sitting by her side, just staring at her. He rarely left the room, snapping at Mrs. O’Neill when she suggested she take a turn with Abigail, and allow him to sleep or eat other than from a tray brought to the room twice a day by the footman.

Manning showed up each morning to shave and admonish him—by forceful looks—on his disarray. He didn’t care. When he grew too fatigued to even keep his eyes open, he’d crawled onto the bed and lay alongside his wife, holding her close when she shivered, and wiping her with a cloth when she perspired.

How frightening to watch someone you cared about toss and turn, mumbling incoherent words. She begged for water, which he ended up spilling all over her nightgown as she thrashed about in her fever-induced frenzy. He’d soon given up having Sanders change her, and did the chore himself, wincing each time he saw the bullet wound. Evidence of his neglect. Keeping her quiet became difficult, and he worried that she would break open the stitches.

On the fourth morning, he stood alongside the bed, taking in her wax-like countenance as the sun rose slowly over the horizon and bathed the entire room with light. Never in his entire life had he felt so helpless. He’d attended many a sick bed in his time as rector. Always, he would leave the distraught patient’s loved one with words of comfort. He now realized they meant absolutely nothing. No words of comfort would relieve the fear of losing Abigail.

Weary to his soul, he removed his boots and stockings and crawled in alongside his wife.

…

Abigail opened her eyes to a disheveled Joseph lying alongside her. It appeared he’d had scant grooming or a change of clothing for days. His cravat and jacket were gone, and several buttons down the front of his linen shirt had been unfastened. He wore breeches, but his feet were bare of stockings and boots.

She had memories of him forcing liquid down her throat and wiping her with a cloth when she would have preferred to run naked in the cold. Her body itched with dried perspiration, and she had a horrible feeling she actually smelled.

Lightly she ran her fingertip over his eyebrow. He jerked but didn’t open his eyes. She grinned as his lips twitched in the shadow of a smile. No doubt he’d taken care of her the entire time she’d been sick. Many men would have depended on servants to minister to a patient. There must have been a great deal of work he’d put off to remain here with her.

Joseph was proving to be a good husband. Just viewing the lines of weariness in his face and the dark circles under his eyes indicated he would always take care of her. As she studied him, a slight fluttering in her belly reminded her that she didn’t want to dwell too much on his goodness. Theirs was not a love match, and she intended to keep it that way. One could not suffer a broken heart if one’s heart was not engaged.

She moved her arm, but the pain was not as bad as it had been the last time she’d awoken. She shifted her gaze to study the canopy above her, trying to remember what had happened. Once she’d left the circulating library, she’d hurried on her way, anxious to make it home in time for tea. She’d passed a few people whom she had recognized, but instead of stopping to chat, she’d wished them a good day and had continued on.

Once she’d passed the stone wall surrounding the town proper, she hadn’t seen anyone else until she awoke in bed. She wracked her brain trying to visualize the scene. It seemed to her there had been a noise and then a sharp pain in her upper arm before she’d either swooned or tripped on something and fell. Her memory provided no more than that.

She sighed and looked out the window on the far side of the room. The sun was full in the sky, indicating the time grew close to luncheon. She suddenly realized how very hungry she was. At least her headache was gone, and the pain somewhat diminished. She attempted to sit up, but the soreness of her arm, and the dizziness in her head drew her right back down again.

“What are you doing?”

She started at the sound of Joseph’s voice. She turned to look at him, his chocolate brown eyes peering at her from underneath his thick brows.

“I think I would like something to eat. Or perhaps a bath. Yes, a bath first, then something to eat.”

Joseph propped himself up on his elbow and studied her. “How do you feel?”

“Sore. Dizzy. Hungry. Dirty.” She tilted her head. “How long have I been sick?”

“This is the fourth day.”

“And from the looks of you, I would say you’ve been here the entire time.”

He sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. “You were quite sick there for a while.”

She touched his back. “Thank you for taking care of me.”

“You are my wife. And it is my fault that you were injured.”

So it was only duty that kept him by her side. She should have known his compassion and caring would insist he tend to her himself. Certainly no warm feelings for her. She thought back to his last comment. “Your fault? I don’t understand. How is it your fault that I was shot and then landed on a rock?”

“I never should have allowed you to walk to the village. Especially by yourself. I am so sorry for all that has happened to you since your arrival.”

“It was not a matter of you
letting
me walk to the village. I chose to do that.”

“No, sweetheart, it is my job to protect you. To keep you safe. I haven’t done a very good job of it, I’m afraid.”

“I’m sure it is as the constabulary said, and a hunter was careless, causing my injuries.”

“Perhaps. But to be on the safe side, I would prefer you to take the carriage on your next foray into town. In fact, I insist upon going with you.”

She raised her chin. “I do not need an escort.”

“Nevertheless, you will inform me if you wish to make visits so I might accompany you.”

Abigail’s eyebrows rose. “I’m to be a prisoner?” She bristled at the idea that she needed his permission to go somewhere. Whenever her brother had taken that attitude with her, or her sisters, they had quickly put him in his place. Although, truth be told, none of them had ever been shot at.

“Of course not. I only want to keep you safe.”

“Has anyone else in Addysby End fallen victim to a shooting while walking to town?”

He shook his head.

“There, you see? It was a careless hunter, and it shall never happen again.”

His jaw tightened and his eyes flashed. “I agree. It will never happen again because in the future I will not permit you to hie off to the village by yourself.”

Oh, how dare the man be so pompous?
As if she would ask his permission to leave the house. He would soon understand that she did not take well to being told what to do. And furthermore, waiting around like some simpering miss to have him escort her hither and yon was completely out of the question. “And how do you intend to do that,
Mr. Fox
, by tying me to this bed?” She slapped her hand down on the mattress, wincing at the pain that reverberated through her body at the unwise move.

In a flash, he joined her on the bed, his hands planted firmly on either side of her hips, his face mere inches from hers. “Be warned,
Lady Abigail
, if I tie you to this bed it will be for purposes other than to keep you from going to the village on your own.”