Page 22 of The Lady Who Left (The Flower Sisters #4)

M arigold rolled over and groaned, white-hot knives stabbing into her lower abdomen. A bead of sweat slid down her forehead as she fought the urge to retch again.

A knock sounded on her bedroom door, only adding to the agony of her megrim. “Milady?” Bea leaned around the door frame and winced. “Oh dear, you still look terrible. Worse, even. I take it you’ve not had any relief?”

Marigold shook her head, unable to summon the strength to remind Bea she shouldn’t comment on her employer’s state of absolute wretchedness. “Not yet,” she managed.

Pains of this sort were not unusual, but remained unwelcome. Following Matthew’s birth, her courses became irregular, and sometimes she would go months without having her flux. But her body rebelled, as though punishing her for having been born with female reproductive organs.

The housekeeper hummed. “I’ll make you some more tea. ”

Marigold only managed a low moan in response. She’d had so many cups of tea at this point she was drowning in it, but it never brought her any relief. A doctor had offered her laudanum before, but she refused anything that would leave her dulled; enough experiences with the tonics her husband had secured for her fits of “hysteria” had left her terrified of lacking control of her body. She would suffer through the next week and emerge on the other side a wisp of her former self, only to go through the same misery in several weeks.

Her haze of illness broke hours later with a knock on the front door, immediately below her bedroom, followed by Bea’s greeting.

Marigold winced. As Archie had warned in a letter, now that her case was on the public docket, she could expect reporters would attempt to speak to her. She’d been startled but touched by the presence of two burly men taking shifts at her front door and driving the publicity away, particularly when she learned they were under Archie’s employ. But after three days in which her doorstep was constantly busy, she’d sent them away as there had been no disturbances, even by her barrister.

She hadn’t seen Archie since she left him in Rotherham two weeks ago. She should be grateful for this transformation in their relationship; obviously they couldn’t handle the level of proximity they’d shared while working on this case. Distance was for the best. No matter how much she ached for his kind words, wished for his warm, reassuring touch.

“She’s not well, Mr. Grant,” Marigold heard Bea say, followed by a deep, rumbling voice .

She scrambled from the bed, stumbled as vertigo and nausea clutched at her, but found her way to the window to peer down.

A tall hat hid his mop of blond curls, but there was no mistaking his broad shoulders. Her chest tightened, like her individual ribs were binding together.

“She’s not that kind of sick,” Bea was saying, far louder than was necessary, “no sense fetching the doctor.”

Oh, lord. She fumbled with the buttons of her quilted dressing gown, fastening them all the way to her neck before she stumbled down the stairs, leaning on the rail to compensate for the shaking in her knees.

Bea stood at the door, still wide open in the sticky heat, fluttering her lashes indiscriminately.

“Mrs. Addington,” Marigold said, interrupting the flirtation, “I’ll see Mr. Grant now.”

Bea pouted, then made a show of standing aside to let him in. “A tea tray, milady? I can make a right proper one now with those tiny sandwiches.”

“No more tea,” Marigold said as a wave of nausea forced spots to appear in her vision.

Archie must have seen the illness in her expression, because he guided her to the closest seat in the parlor. “Forgive me for saying it, but you look horrid. Do you need a doctor?”

She huffed. “No, no d-doctors. They can’t help me.”

“What’s happening?” His brows furrowed, his hands fisted as if he were restraining himself from touching her and assessing her health for himself. “What can I do? ”

Her cheeks heated. “Nothing. This is a, um, a female malady.”

His lips flattened in understanding. “I’m so sorry, Marigold. Have you tried any remedies? Morphine or styptic balsam?”

“I won’t t-take take them. I know it’s common, b-b-but they leave me…” Nausea pricked her gut as she recalled the hazy, anesthetized sensation, the temporary relief that dulled her reality and left her a helpless doll in her bed. A thought chased those memories away—how did he know of such treatments?

“Understood.” He pushed to his feet, swiped his hands down his thighs. “I’ll be back shortly. Is there something in particular you’re craving?”

Marigold recoiled. “I b-beg your p-pardon?”

He seemed not to hear her. “I’m guessing you haven’t eaten much.” His brow furrowed. “Right. If you think of anything…” He trailed off, already hurrying towards the door.

“Archie—”

“Trust me,” he said, and the knots in her ribcage released one by one as he darted out of sight.

Nearly two hours passed, enough time that she wondered if he’d forgotten about her, and Marigold had long since retreated to her bedroom when a knock sounded again on the bedroom door.

The door opened haltingly at her response, and Archie peered through the gap. “May I come in?”

She sat up on her pillows with a start and pressed her hand to her forehead as black spots danced before her eyes. “Why—how…”

“Your housekeeper let me in.” The mattress shifted beneath his weight. “Lean back, you’re dizzy. ”

She obeyed, and her vision cleared. Archie sat at the foot of the bed, his eyes sweeping over her prone form as though assessing for injuries. “Why are you here?”

He shrugged, reached over to lift a massive basket to her side. “Because you needed help.” One by one he started unloading the contents, and she recognized a handful of them as packages from her favorite chocolatier on the Shambles. “Your housekeeper—Bea?” Marigold nodded and Archie raised his brow. “Appropriate name for your household. She’s heating some water and should bring up the tea now.”

“I can’t drink any more tea.”

“You will, because you need something for the pain. Willow bark, nothing that can impair your judgment,” he said when she opened her mouth to object.

“Do you help all your clients like this?”

He paused in his sorting. “Few clients have shared this specific problem with me. But yes, I’ve helped my clients beyond matters of the law.”

“How?” She slid one truffle from the box, unable to hold back the gasp of pleasure when she bit into the soft, rich chocolate.

He grinned. “I got you caramels, too.” He paused, mouth twisted in thought. “I’ve handled a lot of estate cases, and often people are mourning as well as arguing, so I’ll step in. Listen to stories about their loved ones, maybe move some furniture. Have I told you about the haunted grandfather clock?”

“No,” she said around a mouthful of chocolate .

“I’ll spare you the whole story because it’s not worth the time to tell it. But suffice it to say, carrying a massive clock that may or may not contain the restless spirit of a stranger’s ancestor was one of my more bizarre jobs.”

She chuckled, the sensation so foreign her entire body trembled. He opened his mouth to speak, but the door cracked and Bea bustled in, pushing a rolling tray overladen with pastries she didn’t recognize.

“You should eat, milady. You’ve hardly taken any food today,” Bea cut in, then handed her a steaming cup. “He brought you willow bark tea. My mum made it for me during my courses, tastes like the devil but works like a miracle.” She looked at Archie with approval in her eyes. “I can’t believe you found it.”

Marigold held the cup between her hands, letting the warmth slide down her arms and ignoring the creeping guilt she felt at being the center of attention.

“Oh, the pastries! Cookies from the Italian market,” Archie said, eyes sparkling as he pointed to powdery discs on the top layer. “And these are shortbreads from my favorite spot.”

She lifted one buttery piece, noting the huge flakes of salt on the soft crust.

“Take a bite with a piece of caramel.” She raised a brow as he handed her the candy. He huffed and flattened his lips. “If you trust me on anything, trust me on this.”

“He’s right, milady, trust him.” Bea snagged a sliver of shortbread off the tray and popped it and a caramel in her mouth, then moaned, throwing her head back .

Marigold should get on with teaching this girl proper etiquette. Instead, she gave Bea a significant look. “Thank you, Mrs. Addington.”

“Mmmm, you’re welcome.” She licked the salt from her lip, then snagged a powdery cookie, sending sugar down the front of her serge dress. “The hot water bottles are below, with the extra blankets.”

She was out the door before Marigold could say another word, but Archie chuckled.

“I’m not an aristo, but even I know she’s unique.”

Marigold exhaled. “Archie, why are you d-d-doing this? I d-didn’t ask for it.”

“You don’t have to ask to get help.” He gathered a chocolate, caramel, and shortbread into a stack and handed it to her. “And I’ll tell you once you’ve eaten and had more tea.”

She should feel beyond awkward having a former lover and her housekeeper discussing her menses in her bedchamber, but having someone take care of her like this was… nice.

She’d best not get used to it. Once her divorce was finalized, she’d be starting over in a distant land, with Archie an ocean away.

“Are you going to eat that?” Archie asked. “Because if you don’t…” He reached out as though he’d snatch it from her, and she shoved the tower of food past her lips.

“Oh,” she hummed through her mouthful, “oh my lord.”

He grinned. “I told you! Now have more tea.”

She did and grimaced. “It’s d-dreadful. ”

“I’ll give you more every time you take a sip.” He already had another stack of sweets prepared for her.

“You never answered my question why you’re d-doing this.” She sipped her tea, then gobbled the shortbread concoction with an inappropriate level of pleasure.

“First, I have six sisters and a mother. I never realized it was a social taboo for men to know about women’s courses until I was in university. I think that’s ridiculous.” He pointed to her cup. “More tea, milady?”

She sipped again, the bitterness far more tolerable with a sweet treat on the other side.

“And second, I could see you were hurting.” He paused, studied the tea tray for an inordinately long time. “And I haven’t seen you in some time.”

“In two weeks,” she blurted, then her cheeks heated. She shifted and pulled her bare feet more tightly under her robe. Ridiculous that she’d be concerned with propriety with a man who had been beneath her skirts, but the intimacy of the moment went far beyond her clothing and the proximity to her bed.

“I thought you wanted us to keep our distance.” Her words were hollow.

He scowled and returned to studying the tea tray. “I came to tell you we have a date for the trial.”

Her stomach turned to lead, the shortbread souring in her mouth. “We d-do?”

“August tenth. Which means—”

“We have a month.” So many sentiments laced through those four words. Only four weeks to prepare for a day that would determine her future and those of her children.

Only four weeks until they’d have no reason to see each other again.

“I wanted to talk about—oh, wait.” He stood and leaned over, taking a hot water bottle from the bottom of the tray and handing it to her. She clutched the rubber bladder to her abdomen and sighed with relief. “I wanted to talk about the testimony at trial.”

She stiffened. “I know I’ll need to t-t-testify.”

“And we’ll practice until you’re confident.” His tone soothed her, low and smooth, smokey and kind. Part of her hated how she craved it, while another was desperate to hear his voice soothe her to sleep every night. “I also have the doctor from London ready to speak about the impact of the marquess’ threats.”

She shuddered, but nodded.

“Have you heard from Agnes yet?”

A bolt of panic as she recalled the mistress from the Gaiety, her promise to help. “No, not yet.”

“The post can be slow. Don’t give up hope.” He paused, studied her for long enough that she felt the urge to squirm under his investigation. “Have you given any thought to having the boys testify?”

She recoiled and spilled some of her tea on her lap. “No, absolutely not,” she said, shaking her head. “I want them nowhere near this.”

He leaned closer. “But the divorce is for their benefit. ”

“And mine.” Her voice was high and tight. “You said that the d-d-divorce is for me, t-too. I will t-testify, but not them, never them.”

He reached out and put his hand over hers. “Then you’ll need to carry this case for them. And you can, I know you can.” His smile was tentative. “You’re brave, Marigold. Strong enough to do anything.”

“Why d-do you call me that?”

“Call you what?”

She swallowed. “B-brave.”

Now he recoiled. “Why wouldn’t I call you that?”

She huffed, pulled the hot water bottle tighter to her abdomen. “B-because I’m afraid of everything. I st-stutter, I’m t-timid, I’m scared to t-t-testify in my own t-trial.”

His boundless blue eyes searched her face, his brows furrowed. “You’re afraid, but if you could go back and choose a different path forward, would you?”

Did she regret initiating the divorce? Would she bow her head and carry on as she had been, miserable and alone? “No, I wouldn’t.”

His smile was slow. “Then you have your answer.”

Tears pricked at her eyes, and he must have seen her readying her objections, because he lifted a hand, stood and walked to her bedside table, lifting the book that sat beside her lamp. “ The Hound of the Baskervilles ? You like Sherlock Holmes?”

“The suspense, yes. P-perhaps that’s odd. ”

“Not at all.” He sat on the opposite side of the bed and tugged off his boots, then climbed up beside her. “You lie down, and I’m going to read to you.”

“Archie—”

“I’m reading to you or the housekeeper, and she’ll talk my ears off before I can get a word in, so I’d rather stay with you and the tea tray, if you don’t mind.”

Marigold watched him for a long moment, then shook her head. “I don’t mind.”

His expression softened, and he leaned back against the pillows. “Then you need to tell me one more thing.” He opened to the bookmark and withdrew it, laying it over his chest. “Why won’t you take any tinctures for the pain?”

She bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to draw blood. Several long breaths sawed in and out of her lungs before she felt like she could speak again. But Archie waited, content to sit until she was ready.

“When the t-tutor the marquess hired t-to help me eliminate my st-stutter was unsuccessful, the man recommended a d-d-doctor who could ease my hysteria, as he called it. He gave me t-tinctures, said they would calm me enough to sp-sp-speak normally.”

Just recalling those horrible sessions made her hands shake, but Archie pressed his palm to hers and interlaced their fingers.

“Did he drug you, Marigold?” There was ice in his tone, but his nostrils flared as though a tempest brewed beneath the surface.

“A few t-times, until I refused the d-doctors. When I saw him most recently, he mentioned it again, and I—” She cut off, and his hand tightened on hers, almost to the point of pain. “I can’t g-go b-back to him. Or let the b-b-boys.”

“I won’t let you. Even if we lose.” He swallowed hard, and when he spoke again, his voice shook. “I won’t let him hurt you, or the boys, ever again.”

Withdrawing her hand, she averted her gaze. “You can’t p-promise that.”

“I just did. Now where were we?” He pulled his spectacles from inside his jacket pocket and slid them on. “ Sherlock Holmes had, in a very remarkable degree, the power of detaching his mind at will…”