Nathan was sure that Katherine muttered something after this comment, something likeas well she should, but surely, he hadn’t heard right.
“I want to see her,” he said, as firmly as he could muster.
Katherine lifted her eyebrows. “Who, Lady Randall?”
“No, of course not. I want to see Pippa.”
She didn’t even flinch at his casual use of her Christian name.
“You cannot see her, Lord Whitmore. Of course you can’t. She is unconscious and needs rest and quiet. I understand your worry, and I…”
“No, no, you don’t understand,” Nathan burst out, taking a step forward. “I love her! I cannot go on without her. I need…” He made to step around Katherine, but she moved to intercept him more quickly than he might have expected.
“I do understand,” Katherine said, her voice firm and unyielding. “I’m sure this is upsetting, but there’s nothing to be done about it. We must let the physician work, and time will tell how well she recovers.”
“I must…”
“No, Lord Whitmore,” she interrupted. “You must not. The only thing you must do now is go home and wait for news.”
“Can I not wait here?” he begged, throwing her a pleading look.
Katherine was unmoved. “No. You’ll insist on seeing her earlier than the physician would wish. I am sorry, Lord Whitmore. We’ll keep you informed of her condition, you can be assured of that, but for now, you must go home.”
She turned to her husband, laying a hand on his arm.
“A cup of hot, sweet tea for Lord Whitmore, to help with the shock,” she said, in a quiet voice, almost as if Nathan wasn’t listening. “Then he must leave at once. It’s for the best.”
“No need for the tea,” Nathan answered, his voice shaking. “I… I shall leave now. I am sorry to have intruded.”
He didn’t wait for a response, leaving the parlour and heading towards the front door. A nervous-looking footman handed him his hat and gloves, which Nathan pulled out without thinking.
She’s hurt. Seriously. Could she… might she… was Pippa going to die?
He closed his eyes.
No. She can’t. She must live. She must.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Pippa hesitantly opened her eyes, and then immediately closed them again. The light was blinding.
There was a dull ache in the back of her head, uncomfortable but not the searing pain she remembered from last time she was conscious.
She was lying on her bed, on her side, pillows and blankets tucked up all around her.
Carefully, Pippa opened her eyes again, this time just a crack.
Morning sunlight filtered into her room. How long had she been asleep?
A snore caught her attention. Gingerly pushing herself up into a sitting position, Pippa at once found the source of the snore.
Bridget sat slumped in an armchair, angled towards Pippa’s bed. A book was half-falling out of her hand.
“The Ghost of Morendale Manor,” Pippa read aloud, barely suppressing a smile.
Bridget gave another snort, then her eyes opened. They widened when she saw Pippa sitting up. In a flash, she was at Pippa’s side, clutching her hand.
“My darling girl, you’re awake! You’reawake!” she gasped, tears spilling down her cheeks. Pippa barely had time to marvel at the fact that hermotherwascryingbefore Bridget threw her arms around her neck, squeezing her tight.
