Page 48 of A Murder on London Bridge
I forced my lashes to part, and the world swam into being—uncertain, blurred at the edges. White walls loomed too bright. A window curtained against the sun. A tall bottle of liquid hung from a stand, glinting faintly as each drop fell, steady as a clock.
Beside me, a face.
It took me a moment to place him, for exhaustion and shadow had remade him into someone almost unrecognizable. His jaw was rough with days’ growth, his hair disheveled, his clothes wrinkled and stained as though he had slept in them. Yet when his eyes found mine, the fog broke apart, and I knew.
Robert.
His face crumpled—relief, disbelief, the barest quiver of his mouth before he pressed my hand to his lips. “Catherine,” he breathed, voice hoarse with sleeplessness. “Catherine.”
Tears spilled unchecked down his unshaven cheeks. He bent over my free hand—for the other was bound to the needle and tube—and pressed his lips to it, trembling. The salt of his tears warmed my skin as much as the kiss itself.
I tried to speak, to ask, to reassure, but my throat scraped raw, each word rasping as though dragged over gravel. “What … have you … done … to yourself?” The whisper barely reached my own ears.
Yet he heard.
A strangled laugh broke from him, wet and uneven. He shook his head, pressing my hand tighter against his lips. “Look who’s speaking. Thank God you’re speaking.” His shoulders shuddered once, twice, before he mastered himself enough to lift his head. His eyes—red-rimmed, hollowed with sleeplessness—searched mine as if to make certain I would not vanish again.
His face blurred once more as my strength ebbed, though his hand remained firmly on mine, the single tether holding me in the here and now. My lids drooped despite my will. The fog beckoned, soft and irresistible.
“No, don’t go,” he whispered, urgent now. “Stay with me, Catherine.”
But even as he spoke, I felt myself slipping. My fingers stirred weakly in his grasp, and the effort cost me what little breath I had.
Panic lit his face. He sprang from the chair, nearly upsetting it, and crossed the room in two strides. He flung the door wide, his cry carrying down the corridor. “Nurse! Doctor!” His voice, so often controlled, cracked on the words.
Almost at once, hurried footsteps approached. A nurse, brisk and efficient, swept to my side. Robert fell back, one hand still hovering near mine, unable to let go even as she shouldered him aside to do her work.
She took her time in assessing me, cool fingers lingering at my wrist before brushing my brow. Robert hovered at the edge of the bed, his hands gripping the cold metal rail, his knuckles stark against the white enamel. He resembled a man standingtrial, braced for a verdict that might restore his world—or shatter it beyond repair.
Finally, when he could bear the silence no longer, Robert asked, “How is she?”
“Conscious,” the nurse replied, her voice calm, almost gentle. “The pulse is weak but steady. Better than we might have hoped. It’s a good sign, though the doctor must examine Lady Rutledge.”
A man strode in, coat flaring, urgency in every line of his bearing. His gaze swept over me before settling on the nurse. “How is she?”
“Awake. Pulse weak, but steady. A good sign,” she repeated crisply.
He nodded once, then turned to me. “I’m Doctor Spencer. How are you feeling?”
“Confused.”
“Understandable. You’ve been in a coma for three days. Do I have your permission to examine you?”
A test. I could tell. “Please do.” I was just as eager as Robert to learn the truth of my condition.
As the doctor drew closer, Robert left the foot of the bed and moved swiftly to the other side. His hand hovered above mine, as if to steady me should I falter.
Doctor Spencer’s spectacles caught the light as he bent over me, tightening a cuff around my arm. The hiss and tick of the pump filled my ears. “Blood pressure holding,” he murmured after a few minutes. Next came the stethoscope, cold against my chest. No verdict there. Then, more firmly: “Now, follow my finger, if you please.”
A pale hand moved before my eyes. I tried, though the effort made the room tilt alarmingly.
“Good. Now, can you count backwards from ten?”
I wet my cracked lips. “Ten… nine… eight…” The numbers rasped out slowly, but they came.
“Excellent.” He leaned closer, eyes intent behind his lenses. “What is your name?”
“Kitty.” I corrected myself. “Catherine Worthington.”
