Harlot. How terrible such a word from Gabriel’s lip filled her with the ache of arousal and tender yearning for wicked delights, but from the countess, a wash of shame stole Primrose’s breath.
The air was thick with anger as the countess stepped a pace closer.
“It was your lack of everything that has my son now fighting for his life. Take the money before I rescind my generosity and kindly depart from my home immediately."
Grief scalded the back of her throat, and her senses reeled. Fighting for his life? Dear Lord, please let it not be so. "You dare accuse me of causing Gabriel's illness. If you had not treated your son so poorly for having only loved me, perhaps we would not be here now," she lashed out, hating that fear and grief caused her to be as thoughtless with her tongue.
“How dare you try to admonish me,” the countess snapped, her eyes flashing with righteous fury. “Get out!”
Primrose skirted around the countess and made her way to the open door. Nearing the entrance, she paused and turned around. “I love Gabriel with my entire soul. I feel broken to know I could not care for him but did what was necessary to save him. I did not let my pride stand in the way of coming to you for help. Please get him the help he needs, but I will not form a bargain where I walk out of his life. He loves me. And I love him with every emotion in my soul. And your prejudice will not change that.”
Then she dropped the banknote on the carpet, turned, and hurried away from the sitting room. She would leave as the countess demanded. Primrose had her pride, but she would be back. Every day to check that he was well, every day to verify that he was alive. It would haunt her mind to be even a night away from him, not knowing if he lived or if he'd fought the fever ravaging through him now. It would kill her to wait hours alone in their bed, wondering if while she was warm, he was cold, empty, and slipping away from her.
But she would not be that weak, terrified person. Though her throat burned and her fingers trembled, Primrose snapped her spine straight, and trudged through the snow for miles, refusing to ask for a carriage since none had been offered. She used the shortened paths through the woods until she reached their home. There she removed her boots and coat and stripped until she was only in her chemise. Then she crawled under the covers and cried.
Chapter 8
Several hours later, Primrose tossed restlessly in her bed, unable to sleep. The night air was chilled, and despite a fire being lit, and she covered with many blankets, she could not get warm. At times she hugged her pillow and screamed her fears into its comforting depth. Other times she came up on her knees, sinking into the too soft mattress, and prayed for Gabriel’s safe recovery.
The next day, she trudged through the snow, along the path back to Sancrest Manor. Once there, Primrose was denied entrance, and the shock of it rendered her motionless for several seconds. “Please Mr. Mabry,” she implored of the butler. “Please tell me if the doctor gave any good report.”
His kind face softened. "The family is still keeping vigil, Miss Markham. It seemed he'd been wounded in the war, and a piece of shrapnel had not been removed, and it had been infecting his blood and weakening his organs."
Pain and terror clawed at the back of her throat. “Please Mr. Mabry, let me in,” she whispered hoarsely, each breath a painful undertaking. “I must see him for myself.”
He straightened. “I have strict orders from her ladyship, Miss Markham, and I must heed them.” Then he closed the door in her face.
Primrose turned and went to the servants' entrance where she was met with similar resistance from the cook, Mrs. Green. Humiliation burned through her, but she still tried to coax Mrs. Green to allow her entry. Primrose was firmly denied with a fierce scolding.
Primrose went home. And returned the next day. She pounded the knocker and waited, staring at the heavy oak door for what felt like an eternity before it opened again, and the butler appeared. He sighed and with embarrassing finality, once more closed the door in her face.
She did not bother to appeal to the other servants, though for a wild moment she considered hiking up her skirts and using the lattice in an attempt to reach the side balcony. Refusing to succumb to despair, she returned to their cottage and drowned herself in transcribing his story more neatly, wanting it to be ready for him when he returned home. It was hard not to give in to despair. Instead, she hoped and had faith, dwelling on the strength of the man she loved with her heart.
The next day she trekked along a path that was becoming too familiar to Sancrest Manor. This time she saw his brother George pacing by the side gardens, his ordinarily impeccable appearance decidedly disheveled. Anxiety knotted low in her stomach. He faltered when he saw her, and she made her way to him. They stared at each other in silence, and the torment in his eyes rendered her speechless. She hated him then, and the countess with her heart, for she should be with Gabriel, offering him her comfort and love.
"What does the doctor report?" her lips barely moved, but he seemed to hear her for he closed his eyes as if pained.
“My brother is still fevered and senseless. He has more than one doctor attending him. He’ll require surgery.”
She clasped her hands in front of her stomach to keep them from trembling. “I should be with him.”
“I urge you to stop visiting. Your persistence does you no credit for you will only distress my mother. I will send word to your home if Gabriel—”
“When,” she said. “You’ll send word when he recovers.”
Ignoring her passionate outburst, George continued, "Verity and Mother take turns at his bedside. And Lady Beatrice has been most kind to sit with him and hold his hand.”
Primrose flinched, but she was happy to know he received comfort and support even if not from her. Without offering a rebuttal, she turned away, truly helpless to stop the pain cleaving her heart in two.
“Miss Markham?”
She closed her eyes tightly, struggled for composure, then turned around. “My lord?”
“He calls for you in his delirium,” the viscount said with a grimace as if his words should offer some ease.
She flinched as if she’d been struck. “And you deny him the comfort of my presence?”
“It’s for the best,” he said flatly.