‘You mean you have,mon cher,’ said Lady Lennox, raising her eyebrows at him. ‘I would have wished her to be more ladylike. It would have been much easier if we’d had a son.’
‘I have never wished it, my dear. I think she is perfect.’
‘Mais voyons, to rush off by herself like that—it is not seemly. And it could be dangerous.’
‘I will keep an eye on what she does, my love. And it will do her good to deal with this—it will mature her. I have confidence in her judgement.’
‘But if he dies, it will break her heart.’
‘If she does not go and he dies, she will feel even worse that she did not try to help him. We can only hope he won’t die.’Lady Lennox, who was a devout Catholic, crossed herself. ‘I will pray for them both.’
* * *
Marguerite sent to the stable for her mare to be saddled immediately, then ran upstairs to change into her riding habit. She put some money in her pocket and when her mare was brought around, she told her groom to accompany her. He asked where they were going, but when told the answer, he said, ‘Oh, my lady, are you sure you do not want to be driven in the phaeton? It is a fair distance.’
‘No, no, this way will be faster.’ The look in her eye told him not to question her further. He mounted his own horse which he had brought out, thinking they were to ride in the park.
He said, ‘I know of a couple of short cuts.’
They rode hard and in silence for what seemed to her a long time, during which she stopped herself from imagining what she would find upon her arrival. She put herself into a trance, keeping her eyes on her mare’s ears, and praying. They passed through a village and the groom made her stop at the pub to bait the horses and let them rest a short while.
Marguerite drank a glass of cider and paced the small garden until she could prevail upon him to set off again. They rode through woods whose beauty she did not even notice and at last they came to an inn of grey stone, set back from the road, and passed under an archway into a large, square courtyard, paved with flagstones.
Marguerite jumped off her mare and, giving the reins to the groom, strode inside, to be met by the landlord, a thick-set man with a shock of brown hair. ‘My lady—how may I be of assistance?’
‘I have come to see my betrothed, the Duke of Argyle—take me to him at once.’ Her voice had risen with impatience and anxiety.
The man was taken aback. He said, ‘My lady, the doctor is with him now.’
She hesitated, then raised her chin and said, ‘All right. Then prepare a bedchamber for me, and a private parlour. I will stay as long as is necessary. My maid is to follow with my luggage.’
‘Very well, my lady.’ He was surprised by so imperious a manner in one so young and pretty. ‘To whom do I have the honour of speaking?’
‘I am Lady Marguerite Lennox, sir.’
The landlord perceived she was holding back tears and said gently, ‘This way, my lady. You can wait in the parlour for the doctor to finish. Would you require some refreshment?’
‘I would love some tea,’ said Marguerite, reverting to her usual manner and thus causing the landlord to smile indulgently. ‘And please can you ask the doctor to come and see me before he leaves? I am so anxious about His Grace, you see.’ Her voice faltered.
‘Yes, it is a terrible thing, my lady. A man so young, so strong. He dines here often, on his way to Ascot. He is in a bad way—let us hope he can be saved.’
He turned to lead the way to the back of the inn and let her into a pleasant room. He was about to close the door behind him when Marguerite remembered the horses.
‘Could you please tell my groom to lead my mare home after he and the horses have eaten and rested, since I might be staying for some time. I will send for him when I need him.’ The landlord nodded and left the room; a short time later a young servant came in carrying a tea tray.
The landlord’s words had struck a poisoned arrow into Marguerite’s heart. She paced up and down the parlour, oblivious of her surroundings, taking occasional sips of her cooling tea, but leaving the slice of cake that had come with it untouched. The door opened again and the landlord came in, followed by the doctor. She froze, trying to decipher the look on the doctor’s face.
The landlord said, ‘Here is her ladyship, Doctor Peel. I will let you explain the situation to her.’
The doctor, a spare man with thinning hair, bowed and said, ‘I fear we are not out of the woods yet, my lady. The trauma to the head was severe, and His Grace is still unconscious. He has also suffered serious bruising to the body, but thankfully no bones are broken—possibly a couple of ribs are fractured. I have done what I can to make him comfortable, but the longer he sleeps, the better his brain can recover. He needs complete rest.’
Marguerite felt tears flood her eyes, but she blinked them back, and said, as firmly as she could manage, ‘Can I stay with him, doctor? I will be very quiet. No hysterics, I promise.’
The doctor looked at her for a moment. ‘I can see you are a sensible young woman. I think your presence by his side could be a good thing, but you must be patient. All we can do now is pray.’
Chapter 15
Marguerite prayed all night, in French and English, sitting by Argyle’s bed and holding his hand—a limp hand, which did not return the pressure of hers. When she had come into the room and seen him, she had found it hard to suppress her shock: his skin was ashen under the dark stubble on his cheeks, his lips colourless, his arrogant eyes shut. Dark shadows played about his face, in the eye sockets and under the jawline. There was a red scrape on one cheekbone, and another, smaller one, on the side of his nose. His dark hair fell upon his forehead.
