“It took a terrible blow.”
I forced out another question. “And . . . the rest . . . of me?”
“You have a few broken ribs, a fractured leg, and your shoulder had to be set. But you are alive, and that is what matters. A few of your wounds were growing infected. The fever nearly took you, but you fought it like a champion.”
Groaning, I shifted my aching arm into a better position.
“There, now. No more talking. Just rest.”
A flash of memory pierced through the fog. Mr. Timmons. Other desperate faces of men I had won money from. The attack. The men bent on killing me. Were they here now? I could not rest. I had to find my mother and sister. I had to protect them.
I tried to sit, but firm hands pushed me back down. It did not take much for my weak body to collapse beneath them. I caught my breath and tried again.
“You are not ready to get up yet. The doctor insists you stay down.” I was pushed back again. This time before I rallied, a hand went to my head, smoothing my hair. This soft touch melted my resistance more readily than her previous efforts. A lyrical song filled my ears.
“Hó-bha-fn, hó-bha-fn, Hó-bha-fn, mo ghrá, Hó-bha-fn, mo leana, Agus codail go lá.”
The words were in another language, and I could not distinguish them. But the soothing, angelic tones were like a tonic. I was a grown man, unafraid of anything until I had nearly greeted the gates of death. Now guilt tormented me.
I did not deserve a second chance at living.
But this woman—whomever she was—did not seem to care. Her voice . . . it was a gift—a gentle song of serenity. She wanted me to recover. And I clung to her wanting. The fact that someone desired my health and worried for me brought more peace to my soul than any medicine ever could.
My breathing evened as I listened until the entrancing sound and the comforting touch lulled me back to sleep.
Chapter 6
Estelle
Three days and Mr. Long was alive, but only just. Those three days felt like three weeks. His fever brought back the dreaded days of my parents’ suffering and the horrors of waiting, unable to relieve their pain.
At least then I had been at home and had Reginald. This time, I had nothing to comfort me. At times, I watched Mr. Long and could only see myself in him—both of us beaten. I had never been so still in my entire life—and it had nearly driven me mad. My rigorous study schedule had exhausted my mind to a breaking point. I did not know who I was without it.
Sitting in a chair at Mr. Long’s bedside, I watched his chest rise and fall beneath the coverlet that effectively hid most of his broken body. His sandy hair spilled over a bandage on his forehead, resting on the top of the linen binding wrapped around his eyes. The binding had to stay in place until his body absorbed the blood that had accumulated there. The doctor was uncertain if his vision would return, but neither could he say it would not.
I smoothed the edge of his blanket, my hand accidentally brushing his side. Startled, I pulled back—a sheepish laugh falling from my lips. “Forgive me if I have shocked you with my behavior. I do not mean to be untoward.”
An unconscious man was not the best conversationalist, but I did not mind. I had been talking to myself for years now, and this seemed an improvement. I rested my chin on my hand. “Believe it or not, I was raised better. However, my reputation will never be what it was. Have you ever thrown away everything because you were scared, Mr. Long?”
Mr. Long—I could no longer think of him as anything else—flinched in his bed. I held my breath until I was certain he had relaxed back into a restful state. He had come into my life unexpectedly, but thoughts of him had kept me from despairing over my own dire straits. “Patience,” I whispered.
I silently told myself to do the same. Part of me feared my brother would burst into the room at any moment to find me in a man’s bedchamber. But he had been traveling when I had left. Surely, he had not yet seen the note I had left behind.
Would he even care when he did?
“If Reginald surprises us with his company,” I whispered again, “don’t get caught up in his bluster.”
It was nice talking so openly to someone like him. It had been too long. Maybe in the future, I would be more social and could converse with someone who was actually awake.
“Oh, forgive me. You do not know who Reggie is. He is my older brother. He seized the first opportunity for someone to take me off his hands.”
Or perhaps he had bribed them to take me . . . I scrunched my nose. Reginald couldn’t have been that desperate. My hand tightened over the button I had taken to carrying. I had discovered it in Mr. Long’s grip the morning after we had brought him here. Fighting my circling thoughts about Reginald, I forced myself to examine it once more.
I ran my finger over a gilded finish, wondering what clues it could reveal about Mr. Long. Most men these days wore milk glass buttons, but not our stranger. Unless, of course, it had belonged to his attacker.
Why had he clung to it so tightly? What was so important about it? It begged the question—the most essential question of all—who was Mr. Long? Where had he come from? And who had given him these wounds? The same unanswered questions pelted me over and over again until my mind felt bruised with the fatigue of it. I held the button up to the gas lamp near the head of the bed and squinted. Engraved on its surface was a minuscule flag with an olive branch crest. Was it a mere decoration or did it stand for something?
“Miss, a letter ‘as come for ye.”
