Page 87 of The Premonition at Withers Farm
Perliett lowered herself gently back onto the pillows. She’d risked arm and limb and everything else for something smelling salts could have resolved? But she’d tried those! She’d tried brandy! Her mother hadn’t responded to any of them. Not even a flicker of an eyelid.
“It’s impossible. She was unconscious when I left.” Perliett’s argument hurt her lips. They felt swollen and bruised. So did her face. She reached up to touch her cheek.
“You’re a sight.” George regained command of the conversation from Detective Poll.
“I need a mirror.” Perliett tried to look around for a hand mirror in the Hannitys’ guest room.
George stepped in front of her view of the dresser andblocked it. “You don’t want a mirror. Now hold still and let me tend to you.”
Perliett wanted to resist, but truthfully the knowledge that her mother wasn’t in some critical state had relieved her. With that relief came a flood of awareness of her own throbbing pain from the attack in the cornfield.
George leaned over her, his fingers finding her pulse at her wrist.
“I’ll be all—”
“Shh,” he demanded.
“George, I—”
“Silence.”
Silence. Overbearing, heavy-handed oaf.
He examined her, and she felt her skin warm beneath his fingers. They brushed along her neck, feeling both sides. Pushed hair from her hairline. Trailed down her bruised arm, turning it ever so gently—which seemed so out of character for the annoying man—and noting the marks.
“What happened?” Detective Poll asked the inevitable question.
George ignored him as he continued to examine her. He lowered the blankets so he could access her bare legs and feet. They were coated in blood and dirt. Her nightgown was still ripped and soiled. Perliett turned her face toward the wall, away from George—away from the humiliation of having him see her bare skin.
“Miss Van Hilton?” the detective pressed.
Perliett drew in a shuddering breath, hoping that George didn’t notice. He must have. His hands stilled for a moment before continuing to examine the bottom of her feet, which were cut and scratched.
“Talk to him.” The direction from George spurred Perliett to raise her eyes and meet his.
Terror was seeping into her as what had occurred became real all over again. The road, the cornfield, the...
“London Bridge,” she whispered.
“What’s that?” Detective Poll stepped into the room.
Perliett locked eyes with George. His eyes narrowed, listening, contemplating her next words as he weighed them against her injuries.
“There was a little girl...” Perliett tore her gaze away from George to look at Detective Poll, who had arrived at the end of her bed.
He frowned. “A little girl did this to you?”
“I-I don’t know,” Perliett half sobbed. “I was fetching help. I couldn’t rouse my mother. I heard ‘London Bridge,’ only...” She paused, recalling while simultaneously wishing she could block the memory of it. “It sounded like a man, humming it, and then someone grabbed me.” She bit her lip, squeezing her eyes closed against the memory. Against the humiliation of George taking a wet cloth from the nearby washbasin and wiping it down her legs to better assess the wounds. WherewasMrs. Hannity? It was indecent to be in the room alone with the doctor, let alone with the detective as well. Two men? Two men and only her?
Fear rose in Perliett’s throat, choking her. “Get Mrs. Hannity,” she croaked, followed by a frightened whimper.
“Go,” George directed Detective Poll.
“You know I can’t leave you here—”
“Can’t you see she is about to be overcome with panic? Go, man, and fetch the old woman before God himself comes down and claps you on the side of the head for being an absolute nincompoop!” George and Detective Poll stared at each other.
Perliett waited for the detective, who finally spun on his heel and marched from the room, obviously vexed by George’s high-handedness and, it seemed, something else. Yet being alone with George didn’t lessen her anxiety. She knew—sheknew—it had been a man who had attacked her in the field. She didn’t feel safe. Not with George. Not with Detective Poll. Not with...
