Page 70 of A Convenient Fiction

“Unhand her, sir!” an elderly man joined in.

“Leave him be!” Teddy shouted. “That’s my sister.”

Alex breathed into her mouth again. It was surely nothing like he’d seen done in France. And it was probably too late anyway. She’d been too long in the water. He hadn’t been fast enough. Strong enough.

He drew back from her face, setting his hands on her midriff once more, and pressing with all of his might—so forcefully he feared he might crack her ribs.

Laura gave a choking cough.

Relief tore through him. He swiftly turned her over, holding her in his arms above the sand as she expelled the water from her lungs in great heaving retches.

The crowd closed in.

He had only moments before they took her away from him. Any second, she’d be wrapped in towels and conveyed back to the hotel.

He leaned down to her one last time. Her lashes fluttered, black as soot against her pale cheeks, as he whispered in her ear.

When he drew back, her smoke-blue eyes met his.

“Do you understand?” he asked.

She gave a weak nod.

And then the coast-guardsman was there, along with Mrs. Bainbridge and the squire. Alex sank back onto the sand, exhausted, as they bundled Laura up and carried her away.

Surrey, England

August, 1860

Laura sat in the window embrasure, her stocking feet curled up beneath the skirts of her worn muslin day dress, and stared out at the overgrown cottage garden below. Beside her, Magpie gave a lazy yawn. He’d been her only companion in her misery—a silent companion, at that. Something to be grateful for. She had no stomach for judgmental lectures, nor even for well-meant commiseration.

Since arriving back in Lower Hawley, her spirits had sunk to heretofore unimaginable depths. She hadn’t wept, and she hadn’t yet flown into a temper at the unfairness of it all. She was too numb to do anything, really.

Dr. Taylor had recommended rest and quiet. “Another week and you’ll be back to yourself,” he’d promised.

Laura didn’t know how she could be. Not in one week. Not ever.

Alex Archer was gone.

She’d last seen him on the beach Sunday morning when he’d rescued her. In the ensuing hours, as Aunt Charlotte and one of the maids had stripped her out of her wet bathing costume and put her into a steaming hot bath, there had been no word of him. Only her aunt’s grim expression, and the weighted looks of the hotel staff, signaled that anything significant had happened.

When Laura and the rest of their party had boarded the train home later that afternoon, Alex wasn’t on it.

“Mr. Archer has disappeared,” Aunt Charlotte had whispered, her face creased in distress. “Squire Talbot says he called for his luggage, hired a cab, and simply…left.”

“To where?” Laura had asked.

“Does it matter?”

Laura supposed that it didn’t. Nothing seemed to matter at the moment.

They’d been back home for nearly two whole days, and there had been no callers. No sign of Henrietta or George, and no visits from the villagers, either—though they were certainly buzzing with gossip by now.

Laura was being properly shunned.

Which made it even more surprising when, later that morning, Aunt Charlotte came to her bedroom and informed her that Henrietta was downstairs.

A flicker of surprise prompted Laura to turn her head from the window. “Is she? Why?”