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“My dear, I am sure there is no need to worry. George will return home soon enough, just as he always does.”
Elizabeth turned her gaze from the mistake in her embroidery—a result of an unnecessarily and unintentionally vicious stab into the fabric with the needle—that she had been attempting to undo and up to her friend and former sister-in-law, Verity, who was sitting opposite her in the parlour of Trenwith, a look of concern etched across her kind face. She might have been surprised by her friend correctly interpreting the source of the worry which had been gnawing at her ever since they had adjourned from the dining room that evening from so little evidence, but she supposed her increasingly anxious glances at the window and at the clock in turn had given her away. The scars that Francis’ loss had left on Verity had been just as deep as those left on her, after all.
“That is what I keep telling myself,” she sighed, “but I cannot help but think…”
She trailed off, swallowing. It was approaching Christmas, and with it had come the Blameys, who were staying at Trenwith for a short while before the festivities commenced. With Verity had come her husband, who was currently staring absentmindedly out of the window, nursing a glass of brandy in one hand, her two stepchildren, James and Esther, and her youngest son, Andrew. The latter, due to the lateness of the hour, had been taken up to bed some time ago, along with Elizabeth’s own two youngest children, Valentine and Ursula, but Esther and James had joined them in the parlour, Esther sitting besides Verity on the sofa and James playing a competitive game of whist with her eldest son, Geoffrey Charles, who was home from school for Christmas. By all rights, she should have been content with what seemed like a perfectly pleasant winter evening spent with her loved ones, expect there was one very important thing missing—her husband.
Before her marriage to George, she had generally been of the opinion that the festive season should be regarded as a well-earned break for all men, but it had become increasingly apparent over the years that that rule did not apply to the Warleggan Bank. George had left the warmth of their bedchamber for Truro early that morning with the promise that he would come home as soon as he could be spared, but experience had taught Elizabeth not to expect a swift return, for all that she had hoped for it. No doubt her husband would be beset by an endless stream of visits from this lord or that gentleman wishing to find ways of drumming up capital they did not have for their lavish Christmas balls and parties, determined that their dwindling finances would not be reflected in the grandeur of their festivities. She had at least hoped that he would return in time for dinner though, but in that she had been disappointed.
Disappointment had quickly turned to worry, however, when the hands of the clock ticked by and there was still no sign of him. Now, it was past ten o’clock, and outside the rain which had been steadily pouring down for an hour had turned into dense, heavy sleet in the frigid air. That had done nothing to assuage Elizabeth’s fears, and she was now more agitated than ever.
“Well it is a poor night,” she said. “Perhaps he has decided to stay at the townhouse until the weather has cleared.”
In her head, Elizabeth knew that this was the most likely explanation, but her heart was determined to tell her that something entirely different had happened—something awful. She tried to suppress the thought as best she could, but it refused to leave her no matter how much she tried.
Another hour passed, and after soundly beating his step-cousin at whist, Geoffrey Charles retired to bed with a yawn. Elizabeth thought she noticed an uneasy look in his eye as he bid her goodnight, and she suspected that he too had noticed his stepfather’s absence keenly throughout the evening. Biting her lip, she watched his retreating back before returning her gaze to her embroidery. In her anxiety, she had made several more mistakes in the stitching which, right then, she had neither the will nor the patience to attempt to undo. No doubt George would return home the next day, none the worse for wear after having spent the evening in Truro, and she would feel foolish for her needless fretting, but right at that moment, with the sleet falling outside and the agonising ticking of the clock ringing in her ears, the grip of her worry was too strong to shake off.
Not more than a quarter of an hour had passed before something happened to turn that worry into a horrible, suffocating terror. A loud, insistent hammering at the outside door abruptly interrupted her contemplation of the clock. Her eyes widening, she drew in a sharp intake of breath, exchanging a fearful glance with Verity before craning her neck towards the window in the hope of being able to make out the cause of the dreaded noise in the nigh absolute darkness. She hadn’t needed to learn from the night they had lost Francis that night-time visitors rarely meant anything but ill news.
Her worst fears were confirmed when she heard footsteps rushing to answer the door, followed by a brief, urgent, muffled exchange, before the one of the maids, Polly, burst into the parlour, wide-eyed and white-faced. Elizabeth tried to keep as outwardly calm as she could in the face of this display, but her hands shook in her lap nonetheless.
“What is it, Polly?,” she asked, not quite able to keep the tremor out of her voice. “What has happened?”
“It be Master’s horse, ma’am,” Polly replied. “She’s turned up in the grounds in a frightful state, ‘cept…oh I be ever so sorry ma’am, but there b’aint no sign o’ Mr Warleggan.”
Elizabeth felt as if the ground had dropped away from under her.
She had not stepped away from the window since Trigg, the stable hands, the two footmen and Andrew and James Blamey had set out into the night, lanterns and pistols in hand and promising her that they would find her husband and return him home. Verity had, in vain, tried to coax her away, but for all that she knew it would make no difference to the speed with which they would come back, nor the state George would be in when they did so, she could not tear herself away. How could she simply sit, uncaring, when her husband was missing, alone, out in the dark and the cold, when any number of horrible fates could have befallen him? For all she knew, he could have been attacked by cutthroat villains and left for dead at the side of the road, or been tossed from his horse, lying bleeding and broken in some cold muddy ditch or…or… More and more scenarios ran through her head, each worse than the last, and no amount of embroidery was going to be able to distract her from them.
Worse than all of this, however, was the insidious little voice in the back of her head—the part of her that heard the ticking of each second passing as if it were as loud and as ominous as a clap of thunder, and that watched the driveway, shrouded in darkness, with dread more than hope—that was whispering to her, but what if they are too late? What if he is lost to me forever? Try as she might to quash that voice, it would not go away, and, to her horror, her vision began to blur as her eyes stung with unshed tears.
“Oh, my dear, you must not despair,” cried Verity, rushing over to her upon noticing her friend’s silent weeping. “They will find him soon enough and return him home—I am sure of it.”
She was not sure how long it took the search party to return to Trenwith, but to her it had felt like an age. Eventually, she spotted several bobbing pinpricks of light approaching in the distance, before she heard the doors burst open and Blamey and Trigg rushed in, carrying—oh good God—the limp form of her husband between them. Elizabeth let out a quiet sob upon seeing him. In sharp contrast to his usually neat appearance, George was completely dishevelled, soaked to the bone, mud and twigs and leaves tangled in his sodden hair. There were angry red scratches all along his face and hands, and a dangerous blue tinge to his lips as he shivered violently in the two men’s arms, his breaths coming short and shallow. Tears filled her eyes at the sight and she rushed over to him.
“Oh no,” she gasped, choking around another sob. “Oh, George!”
“We have sent for Dr Enys, ma’am,” came the gentle but firm voice of Captain Blamey through the haze of her panic, “but in the meantime we should get him warmed up. He has been out in the cold for a long time.”
As it transpired, they had found George lying unconscious in the woods near the road to Truro, and suspected that his horse had likely bolted upon being startled, taking her rider with her. He had been drifting in and out of consciousness ever since, disorientated and confused both by his time out in the cold and a painful blow that he must have taken to the back of his skull, if the dried blood matted into his hair was anything to go by.
Gently, they carried him up to their bedchamber, Elizabeth following behind, darting to his side as he let out a soft groan of pain, his eyelids flickering as he stirred slightly with a quiet murmur that might have been her name. Once he was laid carefully down on the bed, they set about removing his wet clothes and drying him off before slipping him into a clean, soft nightshirt and a thick winter dressing gown. His skin was painfully bruised, dark purple blossoming at his ribs and back, and frighteningly cold to the touch, even with the roaring fire crackling in the grate as it warmed up the room.
Dr Enys arrived just after they had managed to get him settled under the blankets, and both Blamey and Trigg departing in favour of the other man’s expertise. Upon feeling his patient’s icy skin, the doctor had asked if she could have some drinking chocolate sent up from the kitchens to help warm him up. She had complied as fast as she could, and soon she was helping her dazed, confused husband, who had slipped briefly back into consciousness, to sit up and drink from the cup. Even though he barely seemed to know what was happening, he managed to sip at the hot, spiced liquid a little before he slipped away again, and slowly but surely, he began to warm up, allowing Dr Enys to turn his attention to his injuries.
“He is very lucky,” he said after a short examination. “He is quite badly bruised but nothing is broken, and the head wound, fortunately, is not serious. His left wrist and ankle are both sprained though, so he shall have to rest them both if he does not want to make the injuries worse. I trust that you will be able to persuade him to remain abed for at least part of the duration of his recovery?”
Elizabeth managed a weak smile at this—Dr Enys had tended to the inhabitants of Trenwith long enough to know full well what a stubborn patient George could be.
Due to the lateness of the hour and the poor weather, Dr Enys elected to remain at Trenwith for the remainder of the night at Elizabeth’s invitation and, once he had finished bandaging George’s injuries, sure that he was sufficiently warmed up as to be out of danger, went to seek his own bed. Elizabeth sat at her husband’s side awhile longer, clutching his limp right hand tightly in her own as the tears that she still could not quite supress pricked at her eyes. He was here—he was safe—but despite this she could not forget the fear which had swelled up in her upon realising he was missing, the all-consuming dread that had taken hold of her as she had stared out into the gloomy grounds of Trenwith, praying that he would return whole if not hale.
After a long while, she finally found the strength to move from his side to ready herself for bed. Wiping her eyes, she undressed carefully, slipping into her nightgown and brushing out her hair, though the action lacked the meticulous care that she usually paid to it in the evenings. That done, she turned back to the bed and laid down beside her unmoving husband. She let out a soft sniffle before she could stop herself, reaching out to him and holding him close. Though he did not wake, he stirred with a quiet sigh, leaning into her touch, and with a shuddering breath, Elizabeth closed her eyes and waited for the dawn.
The first thing that George remembered when he groggily came to the next morning was that he had been cold, and hurt, and scared. The first thing he felt, however, was an unpleasant throbbing in his head and a bone-deep ache in his limbs. With a soft groan of discomfort, he shifted slightly, feeling soft, well-laundered linen beneath him rather than the hard, icy soil he had lost consciousness on the previous night. Letting out a quiet, confused murmur, he struggled to clear the fog that filled his mind and think back to what had happened. He had…he had been riding home… Yes, that was it. He had been riding home from Truro after a long and tiring day at the Bank, and then…and then… And then the gunshot in the distance, his mount startling and bolting off into the woods beside the road, clinging on for dear life but he had been slipping, slipping…his ankle wrenched painfully as he lost his grip on the reins and fell to the ground, dragged along with his foot trapped in the stirrup, and after that a sharp blow to the back of the head and then…blackness.
But what had happened after that? How had he…? But then he remembered waking to a deep darkness all around him, a harsh wind whipping at the bare branches of the trees above him and heavy curtains of sleet falling down upon him where he had lay sprawled upon the frozen ground, battered and bruised. He remembered trying to sit up, but being overwhelmed by an alarming dizziness, his vision blurring and his head aching, and collapsing back down, sore and helpless. It had been cold, so very cold—almost cold enough to numb the pain in his ribs and wrist and ankle—and though he had barely dared admit it even to himself, he had been so very afraid. Unable to move and fast succumbing to the cold, he had been all too vulnerable to all kinds of dangers, and out there alone in the woods, he couldn’t help but think it unlikely that he would be found anytime soon. Loathe as he was to recall it, that thought had frightened him more than ever, even with his mind growing slow and sluggish from the cold and the earlier blow to his skull, and to his horror he had felt tears welling up unbidden in his eyes. He had refused to let them fall, however. Warleggans, as his uncle had so often been keen to remind him, did not cry, and he would be damned if he would shame his family in his moment of weakness, even if there were only the bare, looming trees that surrounded him to bear witness to it.
In those moments all he had been able to think about was how desperately he had wanted his wife. How he had longed to be lying beside her in their firelit bedchamber, safe and warm in her arms rather than freezing slowly in this horrible, helpless state, alone and afraid. She would probably be wondering where he was by now—one thing they had always had in common was a tendency to worry, and Elizabeth always fretted when he returned home late. He should not like to distress her so, he had thought, the image of her beloved face slipping from his mind as it became fogged and clouded, slipping out of consciousness once more.
He thought he might have dreamt of her, amongst a myriad of other moments which may have been reality or a fiction conjured up by his overwrought mind, searching for comfort—he couldn’t tell which. But was he home now? It felt as if he were home. Was she with him? With no small effort, he tried to open his eyes, but the glare of the midwinter sunlight which filled the room was too much for his sore head, and he screwed them shut again with a whimper of protest. Instantly, he felt the mattress shift beside him and a warm palm coming to cup the side of his face, thumb stroking along the arch of his cheekbone in a soft, languid motion. He heard a gentle, soothing shushing sound from above him, and he leaned into the familiar touch with a quiet murmur of “Elizabeth”.
“How are you feeling, my love?” came his wife’s voice, and once again he summoned up the strength to open his eyes. He blinked rapidly, letting the glare fade slowly from his vision, and she sent him a soft, faint smile as he gazed up at her, her beautiful face tired and wan, her eyes red-rimmed. He hoped that she had not suffered too greatly from the night’s events—he could not have wished a single ill on her, no matter how small, and it perturbed him to think he had been the cause of her upset, no matter how unintentionally nor out of his control it had been.
“I have perhaps been better,” he admitted as he struggled to gather his thoughts in order to voice something beyond an utterance of her name, his voice hoarse from sleep and lack of water; now that he was beginning to properly awaken he was becoming acutely aware of the bruising to his ribs and the swollen ache of his sprained wrist and twisted ankle. “Although I am sure I shall recover soon enough.”
Elizabeth tutted affectionately, fingers moving to stroke gently through his curls. His eyes fluttered closed, his aches and pains temporarily forgotten as he let out a soft noise of pleasure at the sensation.
“Well I hope you shall not object too greatly to the means to aid your recovery,” she said. “Dr Enys insists on bed rest.”
George sighed quietly but made no complaint. There was not much he could do about it with his ankle in the state it was after all.
“Very well,” he returned with a slight quirk of the lips. “I suppose I shall simply have to endure it for the time being.”
Elizabeth gave a weak chuckle, but her eyes had suddenly filled with tears as she regarded him, her voice trembling as she spoke.
“When they told me you were missing, I was so afraid that…I thought—”
She cut herself abruptly off, drawing in a shaky breath. A single tear leaked from the corner of her eye and trickled down her cheek. Gently, George reached out with his uninjured hand and brushed it away.
“Oh my dear, please do not cry,” he murmured. “I am quite alright.”
She gave a little nod in response, her own hand coming up to cover his, but even as she tried to smile her eyes still glistened with tears.
“I know,” she said in reply, “but I have already lost one husband. I cannot bear the thought of losing you as well.”
There was such raw, sincere emotion in her voice, her face, her eyes as she said this that he had no idea how to respond. Luckily, she gave him no chance to even formulate a reply, as she was already leaning down, her soft, dark hair pooling around them, and pressing her lips to his in a slow, gentle kiss. He gasped as she pressed against him—gentle so as not to hurt him but insistent nevertheless, the sound turning into a quiet moan as she slipped a hand into his hair and tilted his head ever so slightly back to deepen the kiss. He accepted everything she gave him, his own fingers trailing through her silky curls as she shifted to press her lips to his jaw, then down the long line of his throat to where his collarbone was exposed by the open neckline of his nightshirt in a whispering trail of kisses that had him sighing quietly at the ghost of a touch, desperately wishing for more.
Elizabeth came to a stop with a gentle, fluttering kiss to the hollow of his throat, and he let out a soft whine of protest at the loss of contact before he could stop himself. Her fingertips running lightly along his side, mindful of his sore ribs, served to soothe him, but he found himself searching to catch her gaze for answers nevertheless. She was looking at him in askance, he realised, a measure of apprehension in her still gleaming eyes.
“Are you sure, my dear?” she whispered.
The care and concern in her gaze momentarily took his breath away, and all he could manage was a shaky nod, hoping to convey the sincerity of the motion with his eyes alone. She smiled then, kind and tender, and feeling loved and safe and warm, George lost himself to her touch.