It's Beginning to Look a lot Like Scandal

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.

“I’ll not forgive you,” she whispered fiercely, uncaring tears streamed down her cheeks.

“I assure you I would never ask for it,” he replied with an arrogant sneer to his lips.

She left without a retort. And Primrose returned the next day. Before she knocked the door swung open, and the butler peered down at her with a slight frown.

“Miss Markham, please—” he began, then paused, considering her for several moments. “I’m pleased to say Lord Gabriel’s fever broke this morning. An operation was performed yesterday afternoon by two doctors, and he is being monitored closely to ensure he remains on the road to recovery.”

She slapped a hand over her lips to prevent her cry of relief. “Truly?”

He smiled, kindly. “Truly, Miss Markham. Now please leave before her ladyship knows you are here once again. I will send one of the maids with news to you should his situation take a turn for the worse.”

Primrose rushed forward and hugged his portly figure fiercely. “Thank you!” Then she turned around and ran and ran until she reached the beaten path leading to the woods. There she leaned against a massive horse chestnut tree, and slid against the rough bark until her backside was planted in the snow. Her laugh rang through the woods as indescribable relief and joy pierced her heart.

All would now be well, and her love would soon be home in her arms.

Three weeks later, Primrose pushed from the bed weakly, groaning as her stomach roiled. She struggled from the bedroom, down the small hallways, and wrenched the front door open. Once outside, she took a deep breath of the crisp morning air. It did not help; on a gag, she dashed toward the gardens and emptied the content of her stomach into the holly bush.

It was foolish to continue denying her condition. Not when the kindly widow cleaning the cottage a few days ago had remarked that ‘the first’ was always the hardest. Her eyes had been kind and non-judgmental, but her words had been a blow to Primrose. She was with child. She was unmarried. And she was alone.

Gabriel had not returned home, nor had she heard any word from him or the estate. A few mornings she’d tried to walk the snow-covered path to Sancrest Manor but had been too ill to make the journey. Only yesterday the village midwife had confirmed her pregnancy, and at first, joy had blasted through her, to now slowly be replaced with a peculiar terror.

Why hadn’t Gabriel come home?