Cilly said, her voice just as hard, “Not if I can kill him first. Listen, you heard Dr. Crutcher, she won’t die. She will survive this.” Cilly lightly touched her hand to his shoulder, then turned and began pacing, smacking a fist against her palm. “But who is it? Who is this person? Who from your past still wants you dead?” She stopped short. “Oh dear, it just occurred to me. Should you send a message to Lord Whitsonby?”
Graham cursed softly, then shook his head. “No, not yet. She will wake up, she will be fine. No, not yet.”
But what if she never woke up?
CHAPTER 62
Time passed. The first day, the second, and there was no change. People came and went, neighbors, their tenant farmers and many of the villagers, and, of course, Vicar Piercebridge. Of course the story of what had happened to Cam changed and evolved all around the neighborhood until Vereker said to Graham he wouldn’t be surprised if the next iteration was an attack by a dragon.
Gifts arrived from neighbors—a finely embroidered French shawl so soft Cilly said it was like a spun dream to beautifully boxed chocolates from Belgium to soft delicious loaves of bread from Mr. Kirt the miller. There was a special lemonade from a local healer, which Graham dribbled down her throat.
Graham refused to leave her. He paced the bedchamber, glancing as he usually did when he passed by the small marquetry table with the single envelope holding the letter he’d written to Cam’s father in the darkest hour of the previous night when he’d despaired. He knew it was everyone’s objective to keep his spirits up, but when he was alone, now, at the end of the second day, he stared down at her in the candlelight, felt his heart hitch. She was so still as if shereally weren’t there any longer. No, he couldn’t, wouldn’t, think that.
He looked over at the letter to her father. No, he wasn’t going to send Riker with the letter to Lord Whitsonby in London, not today, not tomorrow. It would be admitting to himself, even accepting, he believed she would never wake up, she would simply fade away and die. No, no. She would wake up, she had to.
She would not die.
As he had the previous night, Graham eased into bed with her, held her against him, prayed that somewhere deep inside her, she felt the strong rhythm of his heart. He talked endlessly to her, telling her how much he admired her enthusiasm with theorems, telling her stories from his years with Ryder Sherbrooke, stories about each of the children, ah, even wicked stories from his years at Oxford, imagining she would enjoy the one when he and two equally drunk friends had painted Cambridge’s Blue all over his don’s front door, and he smiled, briefly. So many stories and he spoke until he was hoarse. Yet he never stopped except when he kissed her cheek, her forehead, her mouth. When at last he slept, he held her hand all night, knowing, simply knowing he’d awaken if she did. He hated it because his fitful sleep was filled with nightmares, Cam calling to him, telling him she had to leave, she had to—he’d jerk awake, his heart pounding, cold sweat on his face.
And on the morning of the third day, when he awoke, her hand still lay slack in his.
After he’d forced more of the healer’s lemonade down her throat, eaten his own toast and drunk his coffee, his father came in, lightly touched his palm to her forehead, kissed her cheek and sat down. He didn’t say a word about his son’s pallor, the fear he saw in his eyes. He merely sat there and spoke of local happenings to distract him. Cilly bathed Cam and brushed her hair, braided it, and returned to sit by thefireplace in a high-back winged chair, sewing. Graham and his father received Dr. Crutcher, who examined the wound, changed the bandage and tried to be optimistic, Graham would give him that. Keep the faith, he said. Words, naught but words that meant nothing really. Graham didn’t tell him about the healer’s special lemonade.
Graham and Cilly and Vereker kept vigil. Graham paced back and forth over the soft Aubusson carpet, half listening now to the steady, hard rain hitting against the windows. The maple logs in the fireplace burned steadily, the room was warm, too warm, but it didn’t matter. Neither his father nor Cilly said a word.
Every few minutes Graham walked to her bed, studied her still face, kissed her, told her over and over to wake up, he wanted to burn her ears for saving him. He laid his palm on her forehead. Still no fever, thank heavens. He rubbed cream on her dry lips, dribbled water and lemonade into her mouth until he prayed she’d swallowed enough. He sat in his chair beside her and read to her, his father and Cilly a treatise on the advantages of a water-tube boiler. When he finished, he looked at his watch. Another day was coming to a close. His father left to speak briefly to another well-meaning neighbor. Blakeney himself brought their dinner and a bottle of claret. He always said, “She will recover, my lord, she will recover.”
Graham and his father ate together, or his father ate, then Graham would give her more water and the healer’s lemonade, a fresh batch always appeared as if by magic at the kitchen door every morning.
After dinner, Graham and Vereker quickly fell into the habit of each sitting in a chair on either side of her bed, speaking to her, taking turns, Vereker telling her stories of Graham and Simon as young boys. But mostly, they were quiet, knowing time was passing and if she remained unconscious, she’d starve to death.
Vereker said for perhaps the fourth time, “It was sheerluck that Harley, one of the stable lads, found footprints just before it started raining. He said they were half a finger’s length longer than his feet. We measured. They’re still smaller than my feet.
“Riker believes the man used a pole with a heavy hammer at the end of it, struck the beam, weakening it even more. He must have been on the lookout for you and saw you come to the abbey. He waited until you and Cam came into the abbot’s office, smashed the pole down on the beam and since it was nearly rotted through, it quickly broke in two. Riker showed me the splintered remains of the beam, much of it scattered on the floor. There was no sign of the pole, which means, of course, the man took it with him. You saw nothing?”
Graham shook his head. “I suppose he was lying on his belly on one of the remaining beams. Dangerous, but that must have been what he did.”
Time continued to pass. Cilly bathed her, brushed her hair, braided it; Nutworthy sang “The Cuckoo Song” to her in a lovely baritone, and Eugenie read Chaucer’s “The Miller’s Tale” to her. It was in the early afternoon of the third day when Eugenie finished reading, looked up to see her brother pacing, always pacing when he wasn’t beside her, holding her, speaking to her endlessly. “Graham, go eat, you look like paste and you’ve lost half a stone. I’ll stay with her. I’ll call you if she awakens.”
Neatly three days had passed, minus five hours. Actually, Graham knew down to the second. In twelve minutes Graham would tilt her head back and dribble water and lemonade into her mouth. Most ended up running down her chin, but he didn’t give up until he was convinced some of it went down her throat. He knew it couldn’t go on, but every time the thought intruded he shut it off. She would wake up.
And the letter to her father still lay on the marquetry table.
The household kept vigil, everyone counted the hours, everyone knew if she didn’t wake up she’d die for certain, but ofcourse no one said anything. Dr. Crutcher visited three times, listened to her heart, peeled back her eyelids, but all knew there was nothing he could do.
They waited.
Was she even getting enough water? Was the lemonade helping at all?
Time trickled by. Graham would not give up hope. If he did, he knew it would be all over for him. She’d been in his care and now, only a month after she’d become his wife, she could die. Trying to save him. The pain of that nearly drove him to his knees.
CHAPTER 63
Mama? I heard the noise, a sort of cracking sound, and that beam came crashing down.
My brave girl, you acted so fast, you saved your husband.
Mama, who is doing this?
