Page 43 of An Arranged Marriage with a Cruel Earl
“If I may, my lord, might I talk to you?” the physician asked Lord Epworth.
“Of course,” Lord Epworth said at once. He walked across the room and the two of them went out of the door together. A frown creased her brow. Something about the way the physician had instantly sought out Lord Epworth bothered her. She knew nothing of the family and their history with the physician—perhaps he and Andrew had an argument and there was a well-known dislike between them—but that instant connection, and the way they went out into the hallway, heads bent close together as if they were whispering secrets, was unsettling.
She stood and went to the door, following them out. They had gone to the end of the hallway, and she planned to go closer, to see if she could hear anything, but a hand settled on her shoulder. She turned immediately.
“Lady Rilendale,” Miss Randell said softly. “I am so sorry. You must be distressed for Andrew.”
“Yes,” Emmeline replied, her frown deepening. “Yes, I am.” It was strange that Miss Randell had tried to stop her.
“Forgive my intrusion,” Miss Rilendale said at once. “But I had to speak with you alone.”
“Yes?” Emmeline asked abruptly. She realised that she did not like Miss Randell either, not really—she was too interested in Emmeline’s story, too ready with her interrogations. She held that dark gaze firmly with her own, trying to guess what was behind that smooth, unruffled expression.
“I had the urge to confide my fears in you,” Miss Randell whispered. Emmeline’s frown deepened.
“Fears?” she demanded loudly. “What fears?”
Miss Randell winced as if she wished her to whisper too. “It is something I would not dare to voice aloud,” she continued in hushed tones. “But I fear that I must. I am suspicious about the circumstances around Grandma’s fall.”
“What?” Emmeline hissed. She gazed at the woman in shocked surprise. “How so?”
“Well,” Miss Randell whispered. “I know that it is no secret that Andrew may have poisoned his grandfather. What if he is responsible for Grandma’s injury, too? A fall down the stairs? Perhaps it was meant to end her.”
“What?” Emmeline gaped. “No. No. I do not believe that,” she whispered, though already her heart was racing. “He would not. Besides, he was not here,” she added, her mind grasping for possibilities. She did not want to believe it, and her mind fought to find contradictions to Miss Randell’s suggestion.
“He might have ordered a servant to prepare something. A loose floorboard, perhaps. Or mayhap even to give her a small push. Who knows?” Miss Randell asked, eyes round.
“No,” Emmeline said swiftly. “No. I do not believe it,” she repeated, though her stomach ached with nausea. What if Miss Randell was right? It would be altogether too easy to prepare something like that, especially with the house in disrepair. And with only his cousins in the house, nobody would think to blame herself or him.
Miss Randell lifted a shoulder. “I only confide what I suspect,” she said softly.
Emmeline shook her head again, trying not to let those words affect her. “You did well to tell me,” she said soothingly. She did not like Miss Randell, but the woman’s dark eyes were round with fear, and she could only feel sorry for her.
“Thank you. I am glad you say so. I would not like to meddle,” Miss Randell murmured softly.
Emmeline took a deep breath. “I will go and see where Andrew is,” she said, her voice firm with resolve.
Miss Randell nodded and said nothing, and Emmeline hurried from the room.
She walked up the hallway to where she knew Lady Rilendale’s chambers were. She knocked softly at the door, but nobody answered, and she paused, not sure whether she should go in and disturb Andrew. The door opened after a minute.
“She’s sleeping,” Andrew said, his voice shaking with unshed tears. “I shall retire to my room a moment.”
“Of course,” Emmeline said, her heart twisting with care. He looked so tired suddenly, his cheeks seeming more sunken than usual, his blue eyes tight at the edges. She swallowed hard. “Will you join us for luncheon?” she asked, her voice strained as her stomach churned, reminding her that it had been hours since she last ate. It must be close to one o’clock already.
“No,” Andrew said briefly. He was already walking down the hallway. “I will see you later. Perhaps at dinner.”
Emmeline stood in the hallway, watching him walk swiftly towards his bedroom. His footsteps sounded loud in the silent, empty corridor.
She paused with her hand above the door handle and then drew a deep breath and went in.
Lady Rilendale was lying on her back, her soft white hair pale in the lamplight. A fire roared in the grate, making it hot in the room. The dowager countess was not sweating, though. She was not moving. Emmeline gasped when she saw her forehead. It was dark with bruising, and her one hand, also, she noticed, was a purpling mass of bruises. She must have reached out to protect her face as she fell and then slipped down the stairs. The white nightgown she wore had a high neck, the sleeves reaching a little beyond her elbows, so it was impossible to see if there were any other bruises on her body.
“I’m so sorry you’re so badly hurt,” Emmeline said softly, knowing that the older woman was unconscious. She still needed to say it. “Please get well soon,” she added, her throat too tight for words. Tears sprang to her eyes, and she cuffed them away, turning to go to the door. Something about Lady Rilendale lying there, so motionless, reminded Emmeline of her father’s final days. She opened the door and went out, closing it softly, and then fled up the hallway to her chamber, tears running down her face.
In the quiet of her room, she pressed her trembling hands to her face and whispered aloud, her voice thick with grief, “She must recover. She simply must.” Her heart ached with a mix of emotions—grief for the countess, who had become a cherished friend in just two weeks, for Papa, whose loss still weighed heavily on her, and for Andrew, whose pain she felt as keenly as her own.
“I don’t believe Miss Randell,” she said aloud in the silence. “I don’t.”
