CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Hudson arrived home a few hours before sunset, riding his horse right to the front door and dismounting without wasting time securing it. He jumped from the saddle and strode up the stairs, throwing open the front door and then storming inside.
The house sat in silence, which did not surprise him.
“Florentia!” he called out. “Florentia! Are you home!” He looked to the top of the staircase, expecting her to appear as if by magic. No such thing happened.
Instead, one of the members of staff rushed from a side door, crying in surprise to see Hudson home so soon.
“Your Grace!” It was Mrs. Harris, an older maid who had been with Hudson’s family since he was a boy. “You are home!”
“Mrs. Harris...” Hudson smiled broadly, a sight which she had likely seen less than a handful of times in her long life. “My wife, Mrs. Harris. Where is she? I would very much like to see her.”
“Your wife...” Her aged face paled as if in fear. “Your Grace...”
“Mrs. Harris...” Hudson frowned, a stab of panic shooting through him. “My wife, Mrs. Harris. Where is she?”
“We sent word, Your Grace,” she said, her chin wobbling. “We did not know if it would reach you...” She looked for confirmation, seeing the confusion on Hudson’s face. “But it is Her Grace. She is...” She swallowed, chin still wobbling furiously. “She has been taken ill.”
Hudson’s stomach dropped. “Wh—what do you mean? Ill how? Speak!”
“We do not know,” she said quickly. “It was just yesterday when—Your Grace!” she cried out as Hudson stormed passed her.
Up the stairs Hudson sprinted, down the hall, his sights set on Florentia’s quarters. The door was closed, but he threw it open, refusing to picture what he might find, needing to see it for himself.
He came to a sudden stop as soon as he entered the room, and then he stumbled back as if someone had slapped him across the face and driven a stake through his heart. A coldness settled over him, through his skin and into his bones. His stomachplummeted, now joined by a sickness that had his body shaking. What he saw...never in his life had he felt anything like this. It was such fear that he nearly cried out in pain.
“Florentia...”
She was lying on her back, hands folded on her chest, as still as a corpse, and just as sickly. It was not until Hudson forced himself closer that he saw her chest rise and fall with her soft breathing.
“Florentia!” He fell to his knees by the bed’s side, pushing through the agony that wrecked his body. “What has happened!” He grabbed her hand, wincing at how cold it felt. “Florentia!”
“It was yesterday, Your Grace,” Mrs. Harris said from the doorway. “It was I who found?—”
“What happened!” he snarled at her. “What is wrong with my wife?”
“We do not know!” she cried out. “The doctors have come to see her, but they are as confused as anyone. She is alive, which is a blessed thing. But they cannot say what has happened. They are at a loss.”
Hudson felt a sensation snatch at him that he had never experienced because he had never been in love before. It was heartache, plain and simple. To see someone who he cared for, someone who he loved, reduced to such a sickly state as this,at death’s door with no sign that they might get better...it was agony.
“Florentia...” he said in a whisper, chin wobbling, tears welling in his eyes. “I am here, Florentia. I am here...” He squeezed her hand, then leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. “Please, I have come back. I...I have come back for you. Please...”
It was stupid to think. Even Hudson knew that he was being dramatic. Yet a part of him could not escape the feeling that this was his doing. That the way he had treated her, his rejection of her love in such a brutal manner as he had done, had caused whatever it was that she was suffering from. A broken heart, it had to be.
“I am so sorry...” Tears began to poor down his cheek. “Florentia, please forgive me. I am so sorry...”
There was nothing else to say. Nothing he could do. Powerless and at the mercy of fate, Hudson wept openly for his wife, for himself, for love that he now thought to be lost. This was all his fault, he knew it to be true, and if Florentia was to die or never wake up, he would never be able to forgive himself.
The first thing that Florentia remembered feeling was pain. It wasn’t crippling. It didn’t make her want to scream. But it was consistent, and she could feel it all over her body. Like a hand had wrapped around her organs and was squeezing them. Like aknife was grinding itself against her bones. Like a heavy weight sitting upon her chest so that she could hardly breathe.
But she wasn’t fully awake. She was caught between a dream and reality, the pain she felt making it so that she refused to try and open her eyes, praying that she might see it pass if she just kept them closed a little longer...
The pain didn’t leave her, but the urge to open her eyes grew stronger. She couldn’t remember where she was or what had happened. Had she fallen asleep? Was she home or somewhere else? Every breath was torture. She shifted on what felt like a bed, wincing. Eyes still closed, she tried to feel around herself, noticing that through the pain, something soft and warm was holding her by the hand.
It was another hand wrapped around her own. Larger than her hand, it was strong and protective. Through the pain, she concentrated on that hand as if she was drowning and it was pulling her above the water. She continued to focus on it, feeling the pain slowly seep from her body as if that hand was her protector, as if so long as it was there, she would get through whatever it was that hurt her.
And then, feeling strength for the first time, she opened her eyes.
