Page 49 of A Murder on London Bridge
He appeared confused.
“Your title, darling,” Robert prompted.
“Lady Rutledge.”
“Excellent,” Doctor Spencer said. “Now, tell me, what year is it?”
The question struck me like a blow. For an instant the smoke returned—thick and choking—and I saw fire, not walls and courtiers in velvet and lace, not nurses in white. My lips parted, but no sound emerged.Nineteen—? Sixteen—? Both answers clamored at once.
Robert’s hand closed hard over mine, willing me toward the present.
I forced a whisper through my raw throat. “Nineteen…twenty-five.”
The doctor’s gaze sharpened, then softened with approval. “Very good. That will do for now.” He straightened, nodding to the nurse. “She’s weak, but she’s come through the worst of it. The main thing is rest. She needs to be quiet to give her time to recuperate. Start her on a liquid diet, nurse. A nourishing broth will do.”
“Yes, doctor.” The nurse adjusted the blanket, her movements brisk but kind. “You hear that, Lady Rutledge? You’re on the mend. But you must rest. No exertions now.”
I scarcely heard her. My gaze clung to Robert. My poor darling was a shell of himself.
The doctor gave a last nod. “She’ll do.” With that, he and the nurse withdrew, the door closing softly behind them.
Robert’s thumb brushed absently across my knuckles. His face, although pale, appeared steadier now that the doctor had pronounced me on the mend. At length, he drew a ragged breath.
“I must telephone your parents,” he said, voice low but determined. “They’ve been beside themselves. They deserve to know you’ve opened your eyes.”
He hesitated then, his gaze flicking to mine, as though asking if I had strength enough to bear even that small intrusion of the outside world.
I managed the faintest nod. “Of course.” Mother and Father would be frantic. The thought of easing their torment, even by a little, steadied me.
A nurse entered with a tray. The aroma that drifted from it told me it was more than likely the broth the doctor had ordered.
Robert turned to her. “Would you stay with her while I telephone her parents?”
She gave him a soft smile. “Of course, Lord Rutledge.”
“Thank you.”
His grip on my hand tightened, as if reluctant to let me go even for that small errand. “I’ll be but a moment,” he promised, voice rough with the weight of sleepless days. He bent and pressed his lips once more to my hand, lingering there, before carefully easing his fingers free.
The room felt colder without him, though the blanket was snug. My lids drooped, the fog beckoning again, but this time it held no terror. I clung to the echo of his voice and let myself drift, knowing he would return.
CHAPTER 25
GETTING BACK TO NORMAL
The next morning, Doctor Spencer arrived in my hospital room, spectacles perched on the narrow bridge of his nose, his manner brisk as scrubbed tile. He examined me as he had the day before—fingers cool at my wrist, the cuff tightening about my arm, the stethoscope an icy coin against my chest. He asked the same questions in the same even tone—my name, the year, and asked me to follow his finger. My responses came more surely this time, though my head throbbed dully, and a slow fatigue dragged at my limbs.
Robert was expected any moment. He’d left late last night to get much-needed rest. But Mother and Father were here, sitting side by side near the window, their hands clasped so tightly the knuckles showed white. The sight unnerved me. I could not remember the last time I had seen them so worried. My siblings—Ned, Richard, Margaret—had been eager to visit, but the doctor had advised against it. Too much excitement might slow down my return to full health.
At length, the doctor straightened. “You are fortunate, Lady Rutledge,” he said. “You suffered a severe concussion. The shock to your system precipitated the coma. But no bones were broken, and I’ve detected no lasting injury. Your pulse is strong now, your responses clear, and you have begun to take nourishment.” His glance softened, the severity of his features easing. “You may go home today.”
Mother’s breath left her in a small sound, half-sob, half-laugh. Father crossed to the bed and patted my shoulder with uncharacteristic gentleness. “Thank God,” he murmured.
Just then Robert entered the room, so achingly familiar in the guise of the man I had come to love. Though weariness still clung to him, he was freshly shaven, his clothes clean, and his smile suggested a steadier frame of mind. He came quickly to my side and brushed a kiss across my cheek.
“How are you feeling?”
“Much better. I can now count to twenty,” I teased.
