The Scottish Bride - Catherine Coulter [136]
He poked his finger against his chest. “Ye see? All she needs is me. Now I’ll jest take her out o’ here for a bit and make her all ’appy.”
“She’s my mother, you idiot!” And Meggie hit him again with that log, really hard.
Mr. Dimplegate dropped Mary Rose’s hand, swayed where he stood, and collapsed finally against Meggie’s chair. The chair rocked a bit, then went flying. Mary Rose managed to break Meggie’s fall, which could have been nasty, since she would have landed too close to the stone fireplace. It was Mary Rose who landed against the fireplace, carrying Meggie’s weight, slamming against the hearthstone.
Leo was on his knees beside them in an instant. Meggie was blinking hard, getting herself together. “Mary Rose, are you all right? Oh, God, Max, do something!”
Leo was patting her face, even as Meggie was on her knees now beside her, frantically rubbing her hand.
“Oh, dear, oh, dear,” said Mr. Randall, the owner, still wringing his hands.
“Sir,” Max said, “we need you to get us a wagon. We must get our mother home. We live in Glenclose-on-Rowan. Our father is Reverend Sherbrooke, the vicar there. Please, sir, hurry!”
“Yes, yes,” Meggie said, crying now, “Papa will know what to do.”
29
CLOSE TO AN hour later, an ancient wagon belonging to Farmer Biggs, quickly emptied of moldering hay, and pulled by a gray gelding that was even older than Ricketts, lumbered to a stop in front of the vicarage gate.
Both Leo and Max were yelling even before the wagon pulled to a halt.
Mary Rose was awake, had awakened before Mr. Randall had carried her to the wagon and carefully laid her on a pile of smelly blankets. All three children had hovered over her on the bumpy ride back to Glenclose-on-Rowan.
She’d been content not to move, to let everything settle, she told the children. She smiled now up at Meggie. “I just feel a bit strange, Meggie, nothing bad, I’m sure of it.”
“You’re awfully pale, Mary Rose.”
“Well, I landed against the brick hearth. It was very hard and unforgiving. But I’ll be fine. I just feel a bit dull, heavy.”
“If you’re all right, then why do you look like you want to cry?”
Shouting voices poured out of the vicarage.
“I won’t cry. Please, love, don’t make a fuss. We don’t want to worry your father.”
But Meggie just shook her head.
Tysen was beside that old doddering wagon in an instant. He saw Mary Rose lying there, covered with blankets, so pale and listless that he knew she was dying. He’d never been so afraid in his life.
He climbed up beside her, studying her face closely before he said, “Mary Rose, are you all right?”
His beloved face was above her. He was worried. She wanted to weep. “It was an accident, a very silly accident, Tysen. I am quite all right, I just landed against a brick hearth at the inn in Grapple Thorpe, that’s all, and—” Suddenly she grabbed her stomach and cried out.
The pain lessened. “I don’t understand,” she said, and then the pain slashed through her again. This time it didn’t stop, just kept on and on, tearing at her insides, making her cry and whimper, making her twist, trying desperately to get away from it. She heard Tysen say, his voice hoarse with shock, “Oh, my God, she’s bleeding.” He’d been about to lift her out of the wagon and he lifted his hand. It was covered with blood.
“A miscarriage.”
Was that Sophie who had said that? The pain tore through her again, harder this time, deeper, and she wanted, quite simply, to die.
What was that Sophie had said? A miscarriage? Mary Rose was pregnant? She was losing her babe?
“Tysen,” she said and grabbed at his hand.
“It will be all right, Mary Rose, I swear it to you.” Then she was in his arms, and the pain was twisting and tearing her insides apart.
“A babe? Tysen, am I losing our babe?”
“Hush, Mary Rose. Please, it will be all right.” Tysen carried her to their bedchamber, aware that Sophie and Alex were running ahead of him,