Simon climbed into the carriage and found a seat across from her, the evening light illuminating dust motes about them. He waited until the wheels pulled into motion before answering. “They will never be safe until I have answers.”
“But without you here—”
“I enlisted more footmen from one of Mother’s neighboring friends.” True to his word, he had been gone the length of the day. First, he said, to see Sir Walter concerning how many days he had left of the house. Then to recruit able-bodied servants to guard his children. “Mr. Wilkins has moved the nursery to one of the servant chambers. Even if someone did break into the house again, they would not discover the children.”
“Good.” She felt as if she should say more. As if she should thank him, somehow, for accompanying her to the house party—even though it was for his own benefit, as well as hers.
Wheels creaked and crunched.
Birds chirped melancholy evening songs.
Simon leaned his head back, closed his eyes, though she could not tell if he slept. Did he ever sleep these days?
The exhaustion never left his face. Oh, how she wished he’d never come back. He should have stayed in America, where his little ones were safe and the world was all still right for him.
Nothing was here for him except pain.
The fact that she was a part of that pain—that she was the object forced upon him by a domineering father—made her even more determined against accepting his marriage proposal. He was not the kind who could marry with such indifference.
He felt things too much.
He loved too wholly.
She wished he loved her. That someone loved her. Had she anyone at all? Was there one person in her life who had not been wooed away?
Who had not left her?
Jostled, she gripped the door of the carriage. Evening countryside blurred faster out the carriage windows. Mercy, was the driver afraid they would not make it before dark?
She tried to relax her muscles, but the speed increased.
Simon jerked awake. He glanced at her, confused, before peering out the right window. “We’re on a hill. Too steep to be going this fast.” He slung open the carriage door and it banged like an alarming yell. “Driver!” Securing his grip, Simon leaned out.
“Mr. Fancourt.” Her breath caught. “Careful—”
The carriage lurched.
Simon disappeared.
Everything flipped—the carriage roof beneath her, the seats above her, as her body flailed.No, no.Another flip. Her head swam. Pain splintered through one of her arms and she cried out, but something struck her forehead.
She was faintly aware that everything was finally still when blackness swallowed her whole.
CHAPTER 15
The door was jammed.
From atop the overturned carriage, Simon smashed his boot through the window. Broken glass rained down, pinging off everything beneath. Adrenaline numbed his panic. He worked quickly—reaching his hand past the jagged edges, fumbling for the latch, jostling the door free, ripping it back.
Georgina.
She lay crumpled on top of the opposite door, shards of glass littering her body. She was as white as Ruth had been.
Lord, not again.He eased himself inside, the carriage creaking around him, and hunched next to her. “Miss Whitmore.” The words came out on a rasp. “Miss Whitmore.” When she did not stir, he slipped two fingers below her earlobe.
Her distinct heartbeat steadied his own.
She was alive.
