He reached into his coat pocket and handed Carlisle a calling card, saying something about reaching another doctor in town if Doctor Burnside became unavailable. Alexander was hardly listening, focused on the activity beyond Margaret's door. He felt Carlisle pat his shoulder briefly and tensed at the gesture. His uncle saw the doctor to his waiting carriage, allowing Alexander to return to Margaret.
Long after the doctor’s departure, he remained at her bedside, studying Margaret, watching the maids tend to her, wondering how this might have been avoided. She looked thin and fragilebeneath the heavy coverlet of her bed, chest rising and falling slowly, her hair arranged in dark waves around her face, so beautiful he could only look at her in increments.
He thought of how she had seemed the night prior, smiling at him over his desk, full of life, pretending everything was fine despite the letter she had received.
As though that matters now,he thought. Nothing mattered: not the letter, not Bastian and Isadore, not this come-and-go tension between them. He thought late into the night, trying to leverage reason against his worry, his pocket watch on her bedside table counting the minutes until she woke. His heart ached for Margaret, and when he considered the worst, that she might never wake up, he realized what a fool he had been.
He didn’t know when he fell asleep or how, but eventually, early strains of morning light flickered across his face, waking him in his chair. He looked down at Margaret, and she was looking at him.
“Margaret?”
Alexander leaned forward, careful not to touch her. Her face was deathly pale, her lips dry, but her eyes were half-open, locked with his. He glanced at the table where the small vial of laudanum had moved from its spot, drops of water clinging to the edges of the glass beside it. The maids must have come and administered more medicine in the night. Margaret was awake, under the heavy influence of the doctor’s prescription.
“I’m here,” Alexander murmured, eyes burning as he leaned in closer. “You’re safe. Oh, Margaret...”
He swore she smiled, brows twitching with a deep breath. But his wife was in a faraway place, not really hearing him.
“The horse,” Margaret said. Even though her voice was weak, the sound of it was a balm for Alexander’s soul. She licked her lips, and the movement seemed to pain her. “Forgive me...”
“There is nothing to forgive.” He meant it, brushing his hand against hers where it rested at her side.
“Isadore...”
“In her rooms,” Alexander said, having asked after his sister’s whereabouts the evening prior. “She refuses to speak to anyone, concerned for you above all else. But Margaret, you must not speak yet. Rest for now...”
He turned when the door behind him opened. Margaret’s maid appeared with clean linens. Alexander looked back at Margaret. Her eyes had closed again. He instructed the maid to remain with her, saying he would be back shortly.
The house was quiet in those early morning hours. Alexander crossed the manor, hoping to locate the butler and call Burnside back to Somerstead to check on Margaret now that she had woken. He took the servant’s stairs down to the basement, knowing the butler would be risen. His steps echoed in the coldcorridors down below, following him as he made his way to the butler’s room.
Voices emanated from within. He knocked on the door, signaling his presence, and was greeted by the surprised face of the butler once it opened.
“The duchess has woken,” Alexander said, peering into the room. A man sat in one of the chairs before the butler’s desk – the head groom. “You will send a rider for Doctor Burnside again. But first, what is going on here?”
The groom rose to his feet, wringing his hat between his hands. He was pale and alert, looking like he had not slept a minute that night. His breeches and riding boots were stained with morning muck, evidence that he had ridden in haste.
“John arrived with the dawn,” the butler said, stepping aside to admit Alexander.
“Your Grace.” John rose with caution and bowed. “I bring news... most terrible news... about Her Grace's saddle.”
Alexander’s breath caught. He stared at the groom.
“Explain yourself.”
“I suspected something had happened the moment we caught Thalia alone. Thalia has a strong spirit, but she’s never been aggressive and never thrown off her rider.” John swallowed,brow knit. “When Thalia was brought back to the stables yesterday evening, I noticed something. We removed her tack, and what we found, Your Grace... It wasburrs, stuck under the saddle pad, looking like someone had placed them there on purpose. The straps where the saddle fastens had been snipped and I think loosely restitched.”
Alexander looked at the butler, then back at John, a dark feeling washing over him. “You’re certain of this?” he asked.
“Yes, Your Grace. The stitching was rough but new, and the leather looked stretched, as though someone had loosened it deliberately.” John pointed to a folded handkerchief stained with grease, waiting on the butler’s desk. “I have it, came to show Mr. Collins and ask his thoughts.”
Alexander took the cloth when John extended it. The sabotaged straps had been removed from the saddle, and Alexander inspected them. The equipment looked compromised, just like John had said. He paused, picturing the scene of Margaret’s fall, none of it her fault or Thalia’s, and wincing.
“Her Grace was not alone,” Alexander said. “Miss Bell was riding with her. Was her horse sabotaged as well?”
“No, Your Grace. And I am wondering as well how this came to be.” John pointed at the tack. “We prepared Thalia for Miss Bell that morning, not Her Grace. They must have switched horses on the ride, or something else, because Miss Bell returned on Selene—Her Grace’s horse.”
“You mean,” Alexander muttered, “that someone intended Miss Bell to fall, not the duchess? Who was left alone with these horses? You are the head groom. How did you not notice what had occurred before you allowed my wife to ride to what might have become her death?”
John dipped his head. “You have no reason to believe me, Your Grace, as I cannot say anything beyond what I’ve seen. We prepared the horses as usual and stepped away for ten minutes at most on errands before the ladies came down. Later, Miss Bell returned with her horse in one piece. But Thalia, and the poor duchess... Something must have happened in the woods. Thalia, agitated by the burrs, then threw the duchess off. I do not know who did it, but if it had been me, which it was not, I would not have come here this morning, would I?”
