The Rakehell Regency(22)

The pressure of all of her weight on her arms began to take its toll. To the sound of the shredding of her chemise, she slid trembling out into the cool night air. The ferns and mosses broke her fall somewhat, but she knew she would be badly bruised the next day.



"If I live that long," she muttered, as she groped around for her cloak in the pitch dark, and wrapped it around herself.



Standing up, Vanessa felt as spindly-legged as a newborn colt. She nearly turned her ankle on a stone as she tentatively stepped forward in her thin house slippers. Their soles were slippery and the small heel kept catching on roots and branches as she made her way out of the shrubbery and onto the drive. She kicked them off hastily, picked them up for her walk along the road, and pressed on in her stockinged feet.



She could see a carriage light in the distance going past her house, and tried to walk faster. Though her head throbbed, her stomach heaved, and her legs jellied at every step, she pressed on, knowing only a doctor could save her now. A bad oyster? Or perhaps the pork? Mayhap something more insidious? But, no, surely not...



She shook her head. She put it all down to absurd fancy. She'd been tempted to read too many Gothic novels, and her nightmares ever since she had returned to the estate were causing her unease, that was all. It was only natural. Being back in her old room had simply sparked some rather unpleasant recollections.



Gerald had said it was brain fever. She could recall little of her illness, but he would have been old enough to have witnessed what by all accounts had been her peculiar imaginings, which had inevitably given rise to speculation that she was weak-minded, hysterical, if not downright mad.



Her father had been at his wit's end, a grieving widower trying to cope with an equally bereft young daughter. Eventually her aunt had rescued her, given her a new life of the mind, one based on intellectual pursuit, not fairy tales of demons and goblins.



All the same, as Vanessa trudged on, she could not escape the prickling of unease. What dark forces were at work here in the gloomy old house? It had been bad enough her brother gambling her, without her cousins coming over to tea afterwards to squabble over her like dogs over a nice juicy bone.



She could go to her cousins' for help, she decided, trying to calculate the distance there on foot. There was certainly no succor here, she said, putting as much distance between herself and the gloomy old pile as she could.



But to throw herself on the mercy of the Stephens family might well put her in an even worse predicament than just taking a chance on the open road.



She knew her own constitution. She had rarely been ill after her bout of brain fever at the age of eight, and had grown tall, strong, self-possessed, not in the least like the hysterical little girl who had first entered her aunt's home in Dorset. She certainly had never experienced anything like the wracking gastric pains doubling her over at nearly every step.



No, she needed a doctor. Quickly.



Another carriage went past the gate, heading west to the house near Millcote Forest where the doctor resided. Vanessa called out with all her might, "Help me! Help me, please!"



But the carriage lights flickered off into the distance, leaving her alone once more on the tree-lined avenue.



Vanessa tried to force herself to remain calm. There was no need to give way to despair. Not yet. She had seen two carriages thus far. It stood to reason that another would be coming past shortly. She guessed it was about eight in the evening. Any number of people could be abroad this night, on their way to supper or an assembly or party, she reasoned. There would be another carriage. There simply had to be.





CHAPTER EIGHT



Vanessa made her way up the avenue of Hawkesworth House, clinging to the trunks of the tall oaks which lined the drive. Though she longed to rest, to sit just for a moment, she knew that to give in to that impulse could well be the death of her.



Her breath was coming in short, labored gasps. The roaring in her ears was only due in part to the chill wind sweeping through the countryside. In naught but her chemise, petticoats and cloak, with an autumn storm about to descend upon them, if her illness didn't do away with her, the elements surely would.



She considered her choices again as she forced one foot in front of the other. She was far too ill to return up the drive, and would never be able to climb back in the window, even if she wanted to. No, she had to get to the physician's, or perish.



She raised her head, suddenly alert, as she caught upon the wind the sound of a carriage approaching to her left. Summoning the last of her strength, she made a wild rush forward, propelling herself out of the gates and onto the road. Waving her arms frantically, she beseeched, "Help me! Help me, please!"