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“You men never know the importance of a dress. If it is not cleaned, it shall surely set,” I replied, trying to take her with me. “Worry not, I shall bring her back in one piece.”
“I will accompany you both,” Datura said, coming up beside me.
Was Marcella his wife or a prisoner? Not wishing to fight, I smiled and nodded. It was only then that he saw fit to let go of her arm. I was unsure of what to do, but I glanced around and met the eyes of Verity, who was observing us curiously. I did not know what look I gave her, but I hoped it was as desperate as I felt. We’d nearly reached the stairs into the estate, and I was losing faith that I would be able to rid myself of Datura when suddenly, Verity’s voice rose loudly.
“Dowager, we have not spoken in some time,” she said. “I feel as though you are ignoring me, I hope I am mistaken?”
“I beg your pardon?” Datura looked at her as if she were insane.
“I have written to you several times, and you seem never to reply,” she said even louder, causing some guests to turn to her.
“I have gotten no such letters.”
“How is that so?” Verity frowned.
“We shall leave you both to speak,” I said quickly and took Marcella inside with me.
Datura called out, but I pretended not to hear her.
The footmen had barely closed the doors after we entered the drawing room when she collapsed in my arms.
“Marcella!”
She broke down crying, gripping me tightly. “Please…please help me!”
“Breathe. All right. Breathe,” I said, trying to lift her to her feet, but she was still shaking and trembling, sobbing on me. “Marcella, you must walk. We cannot be here like this.”
“I cannot.”
“What do you mean you cannot?”
She only sobbed more.
“Marcella!”
“My…legs.”
I did not understand, so I lifted the hem of her dress. Her legs were purple and bruised. “What…what in God’s name?”
“I should not have run,” she sobbed.
“You were running,” I whispered. I knew it, had felt it but had not wished to believe it. “You were running from him?”
She cried, holding on to me tightly.
“Did he do this to you?” I asked as I looked at her legs.
“He…it is my…fault. I was mad at him…I am to blame…”
“Shh,” I said, hugging her and patting her back, trying to contain my rage.
Oh…oh…that no-good pugilistic-bully, slug-a-bed-faced, death’s head upon a mopstick, white-livered, vile creature of man!
“We need to get you away from him—”
“He is my husband—”
“He is a monster,” I snapped. I did not realize my eyes were wet until this very moment.
