With almost no oxygen left in his lungs, Thorn reached Bink, only to see his body jerk in the way of a man who is trying to tug something free. He was making silt explode into the water, clouds of sediment spreading as fast as smoke.
Thorn swam blindly toward the place where he'd seen Bink's heel. His hand closed on a slick leg, and he felt forward. If a man is caught in spirals of fishing line, tugging could tighten it, trapping the swimmer until, panicked, he choked on sludge-laden water.
Bink knew that as well as he did, and yet he still pulled. Thorn joined in, pulling with every bit of remaining strength he had. Bink lurched backward, kicking madly.
His foot caught the edge of Thorn's thigh and flipped him as easily it might a fish. In that instant the current caught Thorn in a rush of bubbles, turned him over, his vision gone, air gone, and slammed him against the rock. Water rushed to fill his mouth, swept into his lungs.
The world was already black, but the rush of bubbles in his ears stopped, and everything went silent and cold.
Chapter Thirty-eight
In years to come, India never forgot the moment when Fred burst through the door of her sitting room, Adelaide's butler at his heels. "He's dying, m'lady," he gasped. "And the little girl wants you."
For a moment, Fred's words just knocked about in her head like the lyrics of a song she heard recited but never sung.
Dying? How on earth could Thorn be dying? But the fear etched on Fred's face told her that he was not exaggerating.
She sprang from her chair and ran to Thorn's carriage without her pelisse, without her reticule, without Adelaide.
Fred leapt on and the carriage rocked around the corner. India sat, her nails biting into her palms. Her mind turned into a snowstorm, so white and violent that no single thought made it through, nothing besides the beating of her heart. Each beat was a prayer, a cry, a plea.
Thorn couldn't die. The world would be nothing without him. She couldn't imagine it: her heart rejected the idea.
The pain was like a drumbeat marking the minutes.
As the carriage rocked to a halt in front of the house, India leapt out and ran up the path and through the door, past the silent butler, up the stairs, straight to Thorn's chamber. A doctor was bending over the bed.
When she saw Thorn, her knees gave way and she barely caught herself on the bedpost. He was naked, covered below his waist by a sheet. His skin had lost all color; he was white, a powder-white that wasn't right. His lashes were black as coal against the pallor of his cheeks.
Even worse, a huge gash stretched across his forehead. She watched the doctor make another neat, precise stitch, working to close the gaping wound. Blood was running down from the man's hands, soaking into the pillows.
"He's not dead," she said, her voice gasping. "What happened?"
"Mrs. Dautry?" the doctor said, not lifting his eyes. "He still lives." He took another stitch, and another.
"Are there other injuries?"
"Not unless you count drowning."
"What?"
"He was pulled from the Thames, as I understand it. It's a miracle those men got him breathing again. But he hasn't come out of it. He should have returned to his senses by now. Could be damage to the lungs. Or brain concussion from the blow." More blood oozed over the doctor's hand, and a woman, likely Thorn's housekeeper, moved forward with a wad of damp cloth.
The world snapped back into focus, and India grabbed her wrist. "Is that towel clean?"
"I do the washing on Monday," she answered, her chin wobbling. "It's only been a day or so."
"I will take it, if you please," India said, softening when she saw the housekeeper's red eyes and the tears rolling down her cheeks. "What is your name?"
"Mrs. Stella," she said.
"I'm Lady Xenobia. I'd be grateful if you could bring me a stack of pristine, unused cloths. Put in an order for ice to be delivered every day for the next week. I also want to make up a poultice of eggs, oil of roses, and turpentine."
She took the cloth and wiped the blood from Thorn's face and neck, carefully avoiding the wound itself.
The doctor glanced up. "If he doesn't return to himself, you'll have no need to treat the wound or ward off fever."
"He will wake up," India said flatly.
The man grunted, finished the last stitch, and cut off the string with a small knife. "That's all I can do," he said, wiping his hands with the edge of the sheet. "Either he'll wake or he won't."
"There must be some treatment for head wounds of this nature," India said, eyeing the doctor. His waistcoat was splattered with Thorn's blood.
"Not that I know of. You can try to give him some water, but he won't live long if he doesn't open his eyes. That'll be a sovereign, payable immediately," he added briskly.
"Fred, please escort this man to the door. The butler will pay you," India said, giving the doctor a look that had him scuttling out the door and down the stairs.
India sank onto the bed and took Thorn's hand.
His wound was still seeping blood, but she didn't want to touch it until she had a clean cloth. A doctor had once told her he thought that dirty wounds were more likely to become infected. Lord knows, the Thames was dirty.
"Thorn," she whispered. "It's India."
He didn't stir.
"Please come back," she said, leaning over so that her lips touched his cheek. "I can't lose another person I love to that river, Thorn." Her throat tightened. "Please, please, wake up."
Fred reappeared, looking anxious. "Mr. Dautry's man is wondering if this would be a good time to wash the river water off and change the bedsheets."
India looked up. "I will do that."
The footman looked horrified, but India impatiently waved a hand at him. "I'll need help with the sheets. What's Mr. Dautry's man's name?"
"Mr. Pendle."
"Please ask Pendle to lay out clean sheets and night clothing, as well as warm water. Mrs. Stella is bringing clean cloths. Meanwhile, I'll go to Miss Rose."
"She's in the nursery," Fred said. He hesitated and said, "It was Miss Rose who insisted that we send a carriage for you, my lady. I hope that was the right thing to do. There was such a commotion when he was brought home that she heard it in the nursery. The duke and duchess are at their country house, so I sent a message to you. And, of course, to the duke as well, but his seat is two days away."
"You were absolutely correct to call me," India reassured him. "I've sat in many a sickroom. Will you please send a messenger to Lady Adelaide to inform her of the circumstances? And where are the men who pulled Mr. Dautry from the river?"
"Messrs. Bink, Dusso, and Geordie are bathing and changing their clothes."
India frowned. "Who are these men? Do you mean to say that they are in residence here?"
"They are former mudlarks," Fred said, "and very proud of it too. They're the ones who saved Mr. Dautry. By all accounts, they got him breathing again."
"I will thank them later," India said. At the moment she had to visit Rose.
When she reached the nursery, she found the child listening as her tutor read aloud from a history of ancient Rome. Rose sat on a straight-backed chair, Antigone perched on the rocking cow beside her.
As India entered, Twink's voice broke off. Rose pulled Antigone from the cow and stood, clutching her doll tightly in her arms. The tutor came to his feet and bowed. In the corner, Clara bobbed a curtsy.
"Mr. Dautry is alive," India said quickly. "The doctor just left."
"Has he woken up?" Rose's voice was tight and high.
"Not yet." India went to her and knelt down. "He's going to be well, darling."
"They said that about my father as well," Rose said.
"May I pick you up?" India asked.
Rose nodded. India scooped her into her arms, carried her over to the sofa, and sat down. The little girl remained bolt upright on India's lap.
"I'm very grateful that you sent a carriage for me," India said, stroking her back.
"Lady Adelaide said that you work miracles," Rose reminded her.
This hadn't been what Adelaide was referring to, but India nodded. "If there is a miracle to be had, I shall do it," she said fiercely. "I promise you that. And if that miracle doesn't happen"-India forced the words out because they had to be said; she could not leave the child in the grip of utter terror-"if Thorn is lost to us, Rose, you will come and live with me."