Intertwine by Nichole van

crushing anxiety dragging her under.
    “Heavens, James!” The woman’s voice sounded from far away. “What a mystery. But she is in such pain. I have some of my laudanum. That should help.”
    Dimly through the growing fog, gentle hands lifted Emme up. She swallowed the bitter liquid pressed against her lips.
    And then allowed oblivion to claim her.

    The breakfast room
    Haldon Manor
    Three days later
    May 3, 1812
     
    The weather had finally lifted. In the days since returning home, rain and wind had lashed Haldon Manor relentlessly. But this morning, a bleary sun gingerly peeked out from loose clouds.
    James glanced appraisingly at the still dripping world as he descended to the breakfast room. His muscles twitched to be outside and doing something. Anything. He had been grateful that Ethan Fletcher had braved the storm, showing up in his study dripping water and a wicked grin, anxious for trouble. They had fenced until their muscles collapsed into a rubbery mass. But that restless energy was back again today. It never left him for too long.
    James had just checked on their mystery guest. She lay asleep and motionless in the bed, her breaths deep and slow. She had drifted in and out of consciousness over the last two days, but each time she woke, her memory had not returned.
    He had forced himself not to linger beside her quiet sleeping form. Forced himself not to think about the pull he felt toward her. Decidedly did not trace the graceful curve of her jaw with his eyes.
    He most certainly was not going to ponder upon what drew him to her. They knew nothing about her. And there was the man in the locket who most likely had an emotional, if not legal, bond to her.
    The doctor had come and gone earlier, finding a large bump on the back of the young lady’s skull, and pronouncing that she most likely suffered a concussed head. This also explained her memory loss. The doctor could give them no assurances as to when or if her memory would return. Only time would tell. Other than the blow to her head, however, he had found nothing else wrong with her. She seemed strong and healthy with no sign of fever or other injury. But he recommended that she remain in bed for several more days.
    What they were to do with her after that remained to be seen. The good doctor had volunteered to help them find her identity, her people, asking during the course of his visits if anyone knew of her. James was confident that, with the storm now passed, the word would spread quickly. Someone surely would come soon to claim her.
    And until then, who knew? Perhaps this latest bit of gossip would finally eclipse the incident involving Miss Croft and the vicar’s wandering heifer. James still recalled hearing the gunshot and running to see Miss Croft, righting her mobcap on her graying hair, as she glared angrily at the vicar, smoking gun in her hand. The poor vicar had stared at his dead cow, lying in the remains of Miss Croft’s prized vegetable garden, which it had disturbed for the last time.
    The incident still held first place with the local gossip mill, even four years later. Ample proof, yet again, that nothing exciting ever happened in Marfield.
    James entered the breakfast room to find his brother and sister already there. Georgiana sat while Arthur filled a plate for her from the dishes along the sideboard. Her color was improved, though her soft blue morning dress hung loosely on her bony shoulders. He felt again the stab of pure anguish, that desolate confirmation that he would lose her. The disease would slowly eat her until only a shell was left. James exhaled slowly. He would find a way, something that would save her.
    James nodded a greeting as Arthur turned toward the table, handing Georgiana her plate. Arthur sat and James strode over to the waiting chafing dishes.
    “I thought Ethan would be over again this morning for another fencing bout,” Arthur commented as James piled his plate with coddled eggs and crisp sausage.