Page 114 of Not a Fine Gentleman

Chapter 33

Margaret lay in her darkened bedchamber, sobbing. She had thought learning that her husband was a philanderer had been the worst pain of her life. Her girlish dreams of happily ever after had crumbled with that realization. Later, when no child came to her, she’d lost hope of a loving marriage or a family and developed a hard outer crust. Then her mother had died, which had opened up a whole new level of pain and loss. A mere year later, Father had passed on, and a new loneliness rose up to erode her gasping self-worth.

Connor’s rejection pierced and scorched her with the burning agony of a thousand fiery arrows. Worse, she’d actually believed that Connor loved her. That she was worthy of love.

It had been another lie in a long line of lies that she had told herself.

The horrible truth that had only lapped at her toes, now buried her under a tidal wave, impossible to deny; she was unlovable.

There was no pretense, no keeping up appearances—there was only pain and loss. Dark hopelessness ate away at her soul until nothing remained.

Rachel got into bed with her and wrapped her arms around her. “Meg… what has happened? Please tell me.”

The nothingness that had been a bandage over her wounds peeled away, exposing her pain again. Unable to speak through her emotions, Margaret sobbed.

Later, Taylor brought in a tray and stopped in the middle of the room. “I’m sorry you’re poorly, milady. Do you want the tray on the bed or the table?”

Margaret stared at her, only half registering the words.

“The table,” Rachel said.

Taylor set the tray down, bobbed a curtsy, and added, “I hope you feel better soon, milady.”

“Thank you, Taylor,” Margaret said faintly.

Ignoring the tray with items she couldn’t possibly hope to eat, Margaret got up but wandered about the room like a restless ghost before returning to bed.

Time passed in a blur of light and darkness until Rachel said, “Meg, the doctor is here.”

From the bed, Margaret sighed. “I don’t need a doctor.”

“And yet, here I am,” said a male voice. St. Ives, the same surgeon-apothecary who’d attended her after she’d been attacked by the mob, stood in the doorway. “I’ve come a very long way. Your family can be most persuasive. I don’t normally return to London to treat patients.”

“I’m sorry you wasted your trip,” Margaret said. “I don’t need a doctor.”

Rachel and St. Ives exchanged glances. Rachel left, and the doctor came in. “What do you need?” he asked.

“A new heart.”

“Ah. In that case, I prescribe several cups of tea made from St. John’s Wort, a meal, a bath, and a walk in the sunshine.”

Margaret swallowed several rude replies that balanced on her tongue. He was, after all, only trying to help. “I’ll take that under advisement. Thank you for coming. I’m sure you’ll be well-paid for your time and trouble.”

“Since I’m here, may I check your injuries to be sure you aren’t suffering any lasting effects from your harrowing ordeal?”

“As you wish.”

In his respectful, efficient manner, St. Ives examined her. “You seem to be healing well, all things considered.”

“Thank you,” she said dully as she lay back and pulled the covers back over herself.

“I’ll leave some laudanum with you for the pain—the physical pain.”

“Thank you.”

“And the St. John’s Wort.” Solemnly, he added, “Your family is worried about you.”

“I don’t mean to worry them. I just…” she held up a hand in a helpless gesture.

He took her hand and squeezed it in a friendly manner. “I know it doesn’t feel possible now, but this, too, shall pass. And remember, your family loves you.”

He left her then. She rolled over but sleep eluded her like a wisp of fog. The bottle of laudanum stood nearby, a silent beacon promising blissful unawareness. But it would only help her escape into the bliss of sleep for so long. Eventually, she’d have to face her life. She would do it on her own terms and learn to live with all the ugly truths she now knew.

Did she have the strength for that?