Pursuing Miss Hall by Karen Thornell
Chapter Seventeen
Meg stretched and attempted to roll over in her bed, to find a more comfortable position that would not pinch her neck so horribly but found she could not. It would seem she was not in a bed at all, but a chair. Blearily, she opened her eyes as her fogged brain deciphered her whereabouts. The room she was in was dark and most certainly not her own. A flash of lightning illuminated a window near her, briefly giving light to a shelf of books. The library. It all came back; she was hidden away in the library.
Quickly, she stood, then regretted the action as her vision tilted. Closing her eyes for a moment, she righted her equilibrium and walked in the general direction of the door. Mama was going to be incredibly put out with her, abandoning the party as she had, but she could not regret it. She had needed to think, especially after agreeing to—
To marry the viscount.
She groaned, putting a hand to her temple. Somehow, after a few hours, of rest, her choice seemed far less selfless and far more stupid. She should not have to marry so soon, without even a proper Season. And she could not really marry a man she barely even liked, could she? Let alone one she hardly knew.
No. She must tell Papa.
How long had it been since they’d spoken? What if he had already told Mama or, worse, the viscount? Her vision swam again at the thought.
Please, no. Another flash of lightning lit up the room, and seeing the door, Meg nearly ran for it. She had to undo the horrible mistake she had made.
Bursting into the hallway, which was lit, thankfully, she ran for her father’s study.
It was empty.
Drat. Drat drat drat.
She spun around—where else to look? Down the stairs she sped and was about to enter the drawing room when a choked cry sounded behind her.
“Margaret!” Mama’s voice came from the top of the stairs. “Margaret, oh, you are safe! Oh, praise the heavens! Robert! Robert! Oh, bother, he must still be drying off. But you are safe!” She ran down the stairs, throwing her arms around Meg. Meg patted her back uncertainly. This was not the meeting she’d anticipated.
“I admit to confusion, Mama. I apologize. I fell asleep in the library and—”
“The library!” Mama shrieked, pulling back and looking Meg over. “But we searched there twice. We searched everywhere twice. Why, most of the men have not even returned from searching the grounds. Oh, when I discover which servant overlooked you in the library . . .”
Meg’s thoughts darted about, attempting to capture up the bits of information Mama was muttering.
“Outside? In this weather? Please, Mama, explain it all—I do not understand.”
Still holding her at arm’s length, Mama responded harshly. Her apparent relief had deteriorated into frustration. “It ought to be obvious, Margaret. We could not find you after searching the house and gardens and so we moved to searching the grounds. Your father has just returned from the east fields and is drying off, and Mr. Evans and his father returned with him. Various footmen joined the Parking men to search north and west of the estate, and I believe a groom saw Mr. Blake heading south. They ought to return soon. Lord Hatfield’s mother requested he remain with her after a quick search of the gardens, so he is around here somewhere.” At her own mention of the viscount, Mama brightened and pulled Meg into an embrace. “Oh, Margaret, I am so happy you are safe! I feared for your very life—but now, now! Oh, heavens, you will be a viscountess and mark my words, I will ensure Lord Hatfield does not allow you to leave the house if there is even a hint of a chill in the air!”
The viscount. In the sudden uproar, Meg had entirely forgotten why she’d gone in search of her parents in the first place.
“Mama, I am afraid I cannot—”
Just then, the very man appeared around the corner. His steps stuttered when he took in her presence, but he immediately recovered himself and bowed, his ridiculous collar points pressing into his cheeks as always.
“Miss Hall, how pleased I am to see you safe.” His voice was everything cordial and correct, but it lacked the warmth of one who would have been truly concerned at her disappearance.
Meg dipped her head. “Thank you. I fear I put the household under undue stress. I am grateful for your aide in the search and apologize for any discomfort it may have caused.”
“Not at all, not at all. I only did what any gentleman would do.” He stood stiffly, his expression giving away nothing of his potential thoughts.
“Indeed.” Meg could not help the flat tone that caused Mama to send her a sharp look. But the man had spent a scant few minutes searching the gardens, then remained indoors and dry while the rest of the men risked their necks! What was she to do? Applaud his foresight in saving his cravat from a soaking? She nearly scoffed before scolding herself. His mother had requested he stay behind. Meg may not harbor any warm feelings for the man, but she need not demean him—even in her thoughts.
“Well, I shall inform my mother that you have returned.” He offered another bow and entered the drawing room.
Good riddance.
Though perhaps that was an overly optimistic sentiment. After all, she still had to inform Mama that she had no intention of marrying him.
She turned back to her mother, intent on doing just that. “Mama, we need to speak of this—”
“Help!”
The shout came from outside the front door. Mama looked at her with wide eyes, then looked around for a footman to open the door. There were none; they were all looking for Meg.
So, Meg, bewildered and entirely overwhelmed at this point, pulled open the large door with some effort. A pair of grooms stood in the rain carrying something between them. They looked up with relief.
“We found him near the main road. We did not know what to do—”
Semphill came rushing into the corridor, not even seeing Meg as she was pushed to the side by the men coming in out of the rain. Mama came up behind her. “Whatever is the matter now? Robert! Robert, Margaret is safe!”
Papa had arrived but did not appear to hear Mama. And Meg’s own hearing became oddly muffled as she saw who the two grooms were struggling to hold. An entirely too-familiar man with a crop of dark hair, a strong jaw, athletic figure, and strangely pale skin.
“Nathan.” The word came out strangled as the doors to the drawing room opened, revealing Lord Hatfield yet again.
“Good heavens!” the viscount exclaimed, stepping aside so the grooms could carry Nathan into the room. Meg attempted to follow but was held back by Mama’s strong grip on her forearm.
“What was that about?” Mama said. “Who is that man? I cannot see a thing, and I am unsure how I feel about housing a strange man none of us know—injured or not!”
Meg pulled against her hold. “It is Nathan, Mama. Please, let me go!”
With a look of shock, Mama released her, and Meg flew into the room and past Lady Hatfield, who was now being escorted out by her son, her hand over her eyes.
“Carrying him in there without a care for a lady’s sensibilities!” Lady Hatfield said.
“I know, Mama. Come. Let us have you settled in your room.”
Lord Hatfield passed her, offering only a strangely aloof glance to Meg.
Meg couldn’t care less.
She rushed through the room and fell to her knees at the head of the couch they’d laid Nathan on.
“Meg, you are safe!” Papa attempted to pull her up, but Meg would not move.
“What happened to him?” She looked at the grooms for explanation.
“We think his horse threw ’im, miss. Found ’im near the main road while we was out looking for you. Right glad you’re safe, we are, miss.” The man who spoke was drenched, and water pooled below him and his companion, ruining the carpets. No one was moving as quickly as she would like, so Meg attempted to take control of the situation.
“Yes, thank you both for finding him. Go and dry yourselves. Semphill, call for the physician, and we must get word to Mr. and Mrs. Blake.” The men moved to follow her commands. “And footmen! Gather some footmen to carry Nathan to a room.”
They bowed and strode quickly from the room. Meg returned her focus to Nathan. He was unconscious, but pain seemed to have permanently creased his brow. She brushed sodden hair back from his forehead, choking back a sob at his helpless state and her inability to do anything.
This was her fault. She was certain of it. She had not thought it possible, but her heart rate increased even further.
The door opened, and the housekeeper hurried in, a pair of footmen and a maid with her.
“Miss Hall! Heavens, but you are a sight for sore eyes. Whatever has happened to Mr. Blake?”
“He was thrown from his horse. We must have him dried and warmed so the physician can see to him. Will you have the footmen move him to the green room?” Her voice was steady, but her body had begun to shake, her hands clasping Nathan’s sodden coat in an effort to still their movement. What if they could not revive him? What if he did not recover?
“Yes—of course!” She gestured to the footmen, who rushed forward. One grasped Nathan’s shoulders, but when the other grabbed for his legs, Nathan let out an awful cry.
“Stop! Stop!” Meg shouted, feeling for all the world as if her own body was as broken as his. It must be his leg that was in pain. Could it be broken? Oh, but Meg had absolutely no experience in the sickroom, save her own. Her hands flew to her head. What should she do?
Papa stepped forward, a hand on her shoulder. Mama had disappeared entirely.
“Leave him, gentlemen.” Papa said in a grave, but steady tone, “Mrs. Rutledge, please have towels and extra blankets brought here. Clearly we cannot move him just now.” The room bustled into action again, and Papa pulled Meg to the side. Silently, suddenly aware of how little use she was to Nathan, she allowed herself to be pulled into Papa’s embrace. His touch stilled her frantic being, but somewhere in the back of her mind, she registered that as much as she loved her papa, this was not where she wished to be and not who she wished to be holding her.
“Come, Meg,” he murmured, the sound resonating in his chest where her head lay. “Allow them to help him.”
Meg pulled back. “No.” She brushed a stray tear with a shaking hand. “I will not leave him, Papa. This is my fault. He was only in that storm because you all believed me to be. What if he—I cannot—I must stay with him. Please.” Her voice broke, and Papa pulled her close again, stroking her hair.
“Of course, dear, I understand.” He released her but did not leave. Instead, he pulled a chair over so Meg could sit beside Nathan.
Towels and blankets arrived, and Meg had never been so grateful for something to do as she attempted to dry Nathan’s hair and neck. The ministrations felt oddly intimate, but Meg only cared that she was helping in some way. He had grown impossibly still, and the pain etched into his face had lessened. Expecting the worst, she kept vigil over his chest, watching each rise and fall that spoke to his continued life.
The physician arrived within a half hour. He declared that Nathan’s leg was, in fact, broken. Additionally, he seemed to have a few ribs out of place and had sustained a substantial head injury.
“What can be done?” Meg wrung her hands as Papa spoke his question to the physician. Nathan still lay beside them, pale and nearly lifeless.
“A surgeon will be needed to set the break. Luckily, there is one seeing to a patient of mine over in Broxbourne. I shall send for him, and hopefully, he will arrive by nightfall. Until then, all you can do is keep Mr. Blake comfortable and dry.”
***
In the nearly four hours it took the surgeon to arrive, Nathan did not regain consciousness. His parents arrived and had not left his side, and Meg did not leave either. They took their dinner together with Sir Robert while the remainder of the party gathered in the dining hall as if Meg’s entire world were not falling apart.
The surgeon confirmed Mr. Cooper’s diagnosis and then required everyone but two of the footmen to leave the room so he could set the fracture.
“I will stay with my son,” Nathan’s father spoke without question. Mrs. Blake nodded to him and, after a moment’s hesitation, so did the surgeon.
“Very well,” the gruff man said, indicating to the door for the rest of their group. Meg, Papa, and Mrs. Blake each left, though Meg felt she had to be pulled from the room.
“Thankfully,” the surgeon said before closing the door to the drawing room, “the break is to the lower leg, and Mr. Blake is already unconscious. The procedure will be far easier for those reasons.”
Meg stifled a sob. Papa kept a hand on her shoulder, and Mrs. Blake moved to embrace her. Tears fell freely at the woman’s motherly touch. Meg’s own mother had hardly flitted in and out of the sickroom since Nathan had arrived.
“Nathaniel is strong, Meg. Do not worry for him,” Mrs. Blake murmured as she pulled back.
Meg could do no such thing. “It is all my fault,” she spoke at a near whisper, her hand clutching at the neckline of her morning dress. “Forgive me, Mrs. Blake. It is all my fault.”
Mrs. Blake smiled sadly, reaching for Meg’s free hand. “My Nathaniel never does anything he does not wish to. The blame for this cannot be placed at your feet, nor would any of us wish it to be.” She exchanged a glance with Papa, who had been staring out the front windows with a tight jaw. “Come. Let us find somewhere to wait. I imagine we will not wish—” She took a deep breath. “Wish to hear this.”
Meg’s chin trembled, but she could not allow Mrs. Blake to comfort her any longer. It was the woman’s own son who lay injured in the drawing room, after all. She ought to be the one comforted. Meg straightened. “Yes, let us go to the library. I will call for tea.”
The group hardly spoke for the next hour, each person taking turns pacing or staring at the door, awaiting news. Tea came and was barely touched, and Meg was left far too much time with her own thoughts. Nathan’s pale, strained face continually swam into view. Without a hint of laughter or a single grin, it hardly looked like him at all.
And the likelihood that they had nearly lost him—could still lose him—was not worth thinking on. A life without Nathanial Blake . . . well, it was not a life worth living.
The door opened. Meg’s heart leapt into her throat.
“The procedure was successful.” The surgeon spoke to the room at large, immediately commanding everyone’s attention. “Mr. Blake is resting now. In an hour, no sooner, I request he be moved to a more comfortable room. I will return tomorrow to see his progress.”
“Is he awake?” Mrs. Blake asked.
“No. But that is not surprising, given his head injury and the amount of laudanum I administered. However, the break was less severe than initially believed. We will know the full extent of his injuries when he awakens. Mrs. Blake? If you’ll come with me, your husband would like you to accompany us as we discuss his long-term recovery.”
Nathan’s mother followed the surgeon.
Meg made to trail behind them, but Papa held her back.
“We ought not to intrude on their time with their son just now, Meg. You may see him in the morning. Go. Sleep. It has been a long day for all of us, I am sure.”
“But—” Meg cut off, taking in the deep lines around her father’s mouth, and the purple circles beneath his eyes. Her father needed rest far more than she, but it was clear he would not leave her side until she agreed to sleep as well. She glanced at the now-empty doorway, every part of her yearning to see for herself that Nathan was recovered. But it was not her place, much as she wished it was. She lowered her gaze. “Yes, Papa, you are right. May I walk you to your room?”
“No.” The word was filled with finality. “But I intend to walk you to yours.” He looped her arm through his, steering her out the door and in the direction of the family bedchambers.
Meg smiled, genuinely, for the first time in what felt like days. Her Papa was an extraordinary man. She hoped to one day marry a man who cared for his children as deeply as Papa did his.
Marriage. Meg had forgotten all about her nearly settled engagement to Lord Hatfield. She put her hand on Papa’s arm, stopping his forward movement. “Papa.” The word sounded pleading, even to her ears. “About the viscount’s proposal—”
He raised a hand, a small smile creasing his cheeks. “Nothing is decided, Meg, but let us speak of it in the morning. I believe we shall need to speak with your mother about the situation. She will not be happy if we decide not to accept his proposal.”
Meg sighed with relief and nervousness. Papa may be on her side—he certainly seemed to be—but Mama was another matter entirely. She already seemed to see Meg as a viscountess, seemed to imagine their family had already forged such an illustrious connection. But Meg no longer cared. Matters of love and marriage ought to supersede matters of society.
They stopped outside her door, and Papa bent to kiss Meg’s cheek. “I do not believe I adequately expressed how grateful I am that you were not out in the storm, my dear. You gave us quite a fright.”
Meg’s gaze dropped to her toes. “I am terribly sorry for all the worry I caused everyone. And for . . . for Nathan.”
Papa patted her cheek affectionately, bringing her eyes back to his—green, just as hers were. “If anyone is at fault, it is your mother and I for not checking the house more carefully. But I fully anticipate Mr. Blake will be back on his feet in no time, climbing through windows again by summer’s end if I had to guess.”
Meg froze. “You knew about that?”
Papa chuckled. Lines creased his cheeks and the corners of his eyes. “I know a great many things, my dear. More even than you, I would guess.”
And with those cryptic words, he kissed her cheek again, then left down the hall in the direction of his own rooms. Meg entered hers and sank onto her bed fully clothed.
That morning, she had been nearly engaged to the viscount and had felt fairly settled—or rather, resolved—in that decision. But now?
Now she had every reason to believe that she could never care for Lord Hatfield in the way she wished to care for her husband. Because after the events of today, the events of the last few months if she were being honest, Meg was fairly certain her heart was already engaged.
To Nathaniel Blake.