“Thank Christ,” he muttered, swallowing bile as he lifted his gaze to those standing around. “She’s alive.”
There followed a collective mumble of relief.
“But not out of danger,” he added. “We need to get her home as soon as possible.”
McKinney pulled a folded blanket out from beneath his woolen cloak. “Any sign of broken bones, Mr. Harlow?”
Maxwell ran his hands quickly over Louisa’s limbs. “Nothing obvious.” He gathered her into his arms and stood. “Though it’s impossible to be sure till we get her home.”
“Give her to me, sir.” McKinney shook out the blanket. “I’ll hand her to you once you’re mounted.”
Maxwell did so. “Take a lantern and ride on ahead, McKinney, as quickly as you can without being foolish.” He swung into the saddle and lifted Louisa back into his arms. “I want a fire lit in my wife’s chamber and her bed thoroughly warmed. And have someone send for the doctor!”
“Yes, sir.” The man took up a lantern and went on his way.
The men, lanterns held aloft, escorted Maxwell back along the track. Weighing risk against urgency, and given the conditions, he kept Fraser at a frustratingly steady walk. The rain, thankfully, had eased off somewhat.
Every few minutes Maxwell glanced at Louisa’s face, which was partially hidden in the folds of the blanket. So far, she’d shown no sign of consciousness. He gathered her close and pressed a kiss to her forehead, her flesh cold and clammy against his lips. “Hold on, my love,” he murmured. “Please hold on.”
“Tha’d be best bedding down with the lady when you get her home, Mr. Harlow,” the man beside him said. “Never mind them bloody warming pans.”
Maxwell regarded the man, wondering if he’d misheard. “Whatdid you say?”
The man looked up at him, wizened face lit by lanternlight. “I said to take your lady beside you in the bed. ’Tis the best way to warm a living thing what’s chilled to the bone. Slept by the fire many a time with a frozen newborn lamb when I were a lad workin’ me uncle’s farm. Cuddled them like a babe all night. By morning, they’d be up an’ about, right as rain an’ ready to feed. Your body has heat to spare, y’see, so you should share it with your lady who needs it.” He sniffed. “’Tis the best way, mark my words.”
The suggestion sounded shockingly inappropriate, yet oddly made a lot of sense.
“What’s your name, my man?” Maxwell demanded.
“Thornthwaite, sir,” the man replied. “Reuben Thornthwaite.”
Of course. A name Louisa had mentioned on more than one occasion. The memory of her standing beside a smoking bonfire with the man also surfaced. “The gardener,” Maxwell said, as much to himself as Reuben.
“These past twenty-six years, aye.” Reuben nodded toward Louisa’s still form. “Young mistress often comes looking for a chat when she’s out walking. Loves ’er flowers, she does.”
The innocent statement ignited a heated flush of shame, for it occurred to Maxwell that this gardener probably knew things about Louisa that he did not. He swallowed his blasted pride and asked a question, the answer to which, all at once, seemed incredibly important. “What is her favorite flower? Do you know?”
Reuben tugged on his earlobe and pondered for a moment. “Well, the lady is fond o’ roses, like most women, but I’d have to say she has a special fondness for sweet peas. She’s filled her flower-basket with them a time or two.”
“Sweet peas,” Maxwell repeated, not even sure what a sweet pea looked like.
“Aye.” The man gave a nod. “She’s right fond o’ those. ’Tis true they have a pleasant scent.”
Maxwell swallowed over a renewed tightness in his throat. He knew the physical attributes of his wife well enough. He was intimately familiar with every sweet curve, every freckle, every dimple. But how much did he really know abouther? How often had he sat down and chatted with her about the minor stuff? The small details that formed the unique mosaic of a person’s character? To his shame, he could probably count the occasions on one hand. Preoccupied with building his empire, he’d presumed to keep Louisa otherwise contented with tokens, such as clothes and jewelry. If she’d asked him for something, he’d provided it. He’d denied her nothing, in fact, except for his time and companionship. Those he’d given sparingly.
He could only pray it wasn’t too late to make amends.
*
Maxwell had worna path in the carpet, pacing back and forth outside the bedroom door. Inside, Archer and another maid had supposedly been settling Louisa into a warm bed.
“What the deuce is taking so long,” he muttered, glaring at the closed portal as if doing so might fling it open. He’d originally proposed, quite seriously, that he help with the task of undressing Louisa and preparing her for bed. She was, after all, his wife. But the appalled look on Archer’s face had stayed his argument.
He’d arrived back under Northcott’s roof a half-hour since, wasting no time in carrying Louisa upstairs. A man had already been dispatched to fetch the doctor, but Maxwell knew itwould likely be morning before the good physician put in an appearance.
“I need you to go to Highfield at first light,” he’d said to McKinney. “Her parents must be told about what has occurred. I’ve no doubt they’ll want to come here, in which case, please wait and return with them.” He could only pray they’d arrive at Northcott to find their daughter still alive.
The door opened at last, and Archer emerged, red-eyed and sniffling. “The mistress is as comfortable as she can be, sir. Her nose bleed has stopped. There’s a bruise on her left shoulder as well as the one on her head, but I didn’t see any other sign of injury.”
