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“M’lady. M’lady, please wake up!”
“Moulder?” She blinked groggily at the butler’s form in the light from the candle he held. He stood by the bed, half turned away, his eyes averted from her, despite the fact that every line of his body screamed urgency.
Oh. She was nude. Megs tucked the covers around herself as she sat up. “What is it? Where is Godric?”
“He’s …” The butler looked honestly distressed, nearly panicked. “I don’t know. He’s hurt. Mr. Makepeace sent word from the home. They need you to go there an’ fetch him home.”
“Turn your back.” Megs was already scrambling from the bed, searching for her chemise, thinking about what she could put on by herself. “Have you called the carriage?”
“Yes, m’lady.” Moulder had turned his back as requested, but she could tell he was shifting from one foot to the other. “Shall I call a doctor? He doesn’t like doctors, says they talk too much, but if he’s truly hurt, it may be beyond my abilities.”
Megs didn’t even have to think. “Yes, please, send for a physician.”
She was searching on hands and knees now, looking for the slippers she’d worn earlier. Her eyes were blurring with stupid tears and something awful was beating at her chest, trying to get in. The slippers had fallen under Godric’s bed. She was still in his room and needed to go to her own to find a wrap. Which made her think of something else.
“Make sure to put his cloak and a change of clothing in the carriage. And I’ll need at least two footmen to accompany me.”
“Yes, m’lady.”
“What is it?”
Megs looked up and met Mrs. St. John’s wide eyes. Moulder slipped from the room without the older woman even glancing at him.
Her mother-in-law stood in the doorway, her graying hair loose about her shoulders, a purple silk wrapper clutched at her throat. “Megs? Where’s Godric?”
“He’s …” Her mind went entirely blank. She couldn’t think of a lie, something to put the older woman at ease and make her go back to bed.
Suddenly it was too much. Her eyes overflowed, the tears coursing down her cheeks.
“Megs?” Mrs. St. John stepped forward, pulling Megs close and framing her face with her palms. “What has happened? You must tell me.”
“Godric is in St. Giles. I’ve been sent word to go to him. He’s hurt.”
For a moment her mother-in-law simply looked at her, and Megs saw each and every line that had folded itself into the older woman’s face. All the sorrows she’d borne. All the disappointments.
Then Mrs. St. John nodded decisively and turned quickly to the door. “I’ll just be three minutes. Nothing more. Wait for me.”
Megs blinked, bewildered. “What are you doing?”
Mrs. St. John glanced over her shoulder, her face firm and strong. “I’m his mother. I’m coming with you.”
And she was gone.
Megs blinked, but she was far too worried to contend with trying to talk Mrs. St. John out of going to St. Giles. If Godric found fault with his stepmother discovering the truth about his secret life, then Megs would deal with the problem later.
Pray she had a problem to deal with later. Pray he wasn’t dying at this very moment.
Megs dashed at the tears on her cheeks and scuffed on her slippers. She hadn’t time for this. Every particle of her body was urging her forward, spurring her to go to Godric’s side. She wasn’t sure she could wait for Mrs. St. John.
But when she made the hallway below, her mother-in-law stood by the door, already waiting. The older woman was pale, her face sagging as if she braced herself for some terrible news, but she straightened and nodded as Megs came down the stairs.
There didn’t seem to be anything to say. They stepped into the chill dark, walking briskly to the carriage. It was so early there was no light in the sky, not even the hint of dawn’s welcome succor from the blackness of night.
She was glad to see both Oliver and Johnny standing on the running board behind the carriage, and then Megs climbed in with Mrs. St. John and the fear crowded close. What would she do if he were unconscious? If he’d sustained permanent injury?
She recognized then the awful thing trying to burrow itself into her chest: the same hopeless regret she’d felt on the night of Roger’s death. Her breast tightened and blackness swam before her eyes. She couldn’t do this again. Couldn’t lose another so close to her. He wasn’t Roger, she tried to tell herself. He wasn’t her true love. But her heart didn’t seem able to tell the difference. The panic was real—maroon edged with mud-green—twisting, twisting inside of her, making her feel nauseous.
I can’t. I can’t.
