She was so very cold.
It took all her concentration to simply breathe in and out, as she slowly became aware of her surroundings. The thick black fog in her head began to swirl around her, reluctant to relinquish its hold on her senses.
Sucking in a deep breath, she tried to ignore the acrid, slightly musty taste in the back of her throat, and the worrying churning of her empty stomach. Her head was pounding furiously, and her throat was so raw it was difficult to swallow. She ached from head to foot, which was bad enough in itself, but when accompanied by the pounding in her head, left her feeling decidedly ill. She couldn’t decide which was worse; the thick, black void that threatened to drag her down into oblivion and render her helpless, or the various ailments becoming more evident as time progressed.
She had the vague urge to run, as fast as her legs could carry her, but knew instinctively that her legs wouldn’t work. A teasing hint of something indefinably threatening lurked on the fringes of her thoughts for a few seconds, only to be snatched away by the swirling black mists threatening to suck her back under.
She lay perfectly still, and felt her confusion increase. She opened first one eye, then the other and stared at the dull, slightly cracked ceiling high above. Her breath fogged out before her as she breathed out, explaining why she was frozen to the core. She couldn’t ever remember being so cold and seemed to be covered with nothing more than a threadbare blanket.
Tentatively lifting her head off the table, she glanced cautiously around the room, confused to find it furnished only with the extremely hard bed she lay upon.
What had happened to her? Where was she? Why was she in a room with no heating?
Again, a whisper of memory appeared tantalisingly before her for an infinitesimal moment only to vanish again just as quickly. She knew there was something important she needed to remember, but her brain just wouldn’t cooperate.
It seemed the entire room was painted with the same dull, mossy green paint, and was completely unfurnished. The small window high on the wall did little to allow any daylight in, leaving the room bathed in shadows. It was sparse, but better than where she had been.
That thought made her pause. Where had she been? Shaking her head, she slowly pushed herself onto her elbows, wincing as her stomach clenched in protest. Did she feel sick? She wasn’t sure. She had, but now? She didn’t know. She didn’t feel hungry, but something about her stomach didn’t feel right. She began to shiver as she sat upright, and tugged the thin blanket around her shoulders, trying to take stock of her situation. The room certainly wasn’t familiar to her. It seemed to be some kind of servants’ room, but she was fairly certain that she had never been in it before. So, where was she?
Outside of the room she could hear the low murmuring of what sounded like a group of people. Although she couldn’t decipher what was being said, she knew instinctively that they were close by. It sounded so domesticated that it made her feel like a visitor in someone else’s house. But whose house was she in?
Frowning in consternation, she searched the inner depths of her memory for anything - any clue, any hint - that would get her wayward memory to relinquish its secrets, but could remember nothing. It was as though her memory of life before the room had been completely obliterated, leaving nothing but an empty space and brief snatches of - something.
After several minutes, her reeling senses settled enough to allow her to slowly swing her legs over the side of the table. As she turned, out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of a cascade of tangled muddy-coloured hair hanging limply over her shoulder. Was that hers? It didn’t look as though it had been washed for some considerable time, and smelled awful.
Again, a wisp of a memory swam before her, this time accompanied by a tangible sense of fear that was so real she was driven to look over her shoulder. This time, the fear didn’t leave her, and she fought the surge of panic that began to take hold. Again, she felt the wild urge to run for her life.
She began to gasp against the tightness locked in her throat. The spectre of menace hung over her until she couldn’t stand it any longer and had to get out of the room. She desperately needed to get out into the open; to fresh air, and freedom. Freedom?
Had she been held captive here? If so, by whom? What was going on?
Slowly sliding to her feet, she cried out as her knees buckled beneath her. Frantically clutching tightly onto the wooden board, she stared down at it with a dark frown of consternation. She had been lying on a simple wooden board, resting on a table? Why? She turned at the sound of movement by the doorway and watched it swing open to reveal a maid.
Jemima stared at the woman now standing in the doorway. At first she seemed ignorant of Jemima’s presence, only to give a startled gasp when she caught sight of her standing beside the table. Jemima opened her mouth to speak, only for the maid to emit a high-pitched, banshee-like scream and bolt from the room, slamming the door behind her.
Shocked, Jemima slumped back against the wooden board. She wished she had the strength to run after the woman and demand to know what was happening, but the trembling in her knees had increased to the point that she knew she couldn’t even stand up any longer. Carefully lying back down on the hard wooden board, Jemima listened to the screams of the maid disappear into the distance. She gathered enough strength to drag the blanket back over her body just as the thick fog began to weave its way around her again, drawing her back down into oblivion. As she succumbed, she thought she heard a flurry of activity outside the door, but was so cold and tired that she couldn’t summon the energy to keep her eyes open, or call out to anyone for help.
Jemima jolted as a sudden blast of icy air brushed over the bare flesh of her chest. Her eyes jerked open and she stared up in surprise - straight into the stunned gaze of another strange woman. Another maid?
The woman jerked backward, staring at Jemima in horror for a few seconds before letting out the most ear-piercing scream Jemima had ever heard.
It was so high-pitched that it made Jemima’s head pound, and she immediately groaned at the churning in her stomach. Clutching her head, she took a breath to ask the woman what was wrong, only to find herself suddenly alone. She winced as the door to the room slammed shut.
Memories of another woman fleeing the same room came flooding back. As before, she lay listening to the screams of the maid disappearing into the distance.
“Why does everyone do that?” she croaked, holding her pounding head.
Instinctively Jemima lifted a trembling hand to her tangled mass of hair, before tenderly touching her cheek. Did she look that bad? Why didn’t anyone stop to help her? Where was she anyway?
She still had no memory of anything, only her name. What was going on?
Shaking with a mixture of fear, exhaustion and confusion, Jemima eased her legs over the side of the table once more, and paused to allow her sore head to settle to the new arrangement of standing upright. As she did so, she became aware of a commotion outside of the room again, only this time more muffled, as though it was coming from further away.
Slowly gathering the blanket around her shoulders, she shuffled on unsteady feet toward the door.
This time she would get some answers and find out just what was going on, and why she was being kept in a tiny storage room.
Immediately the word ‘cell’ sprang to mind, and once again she felt a surge of fear so strong that she had the urge to run and not look back. Driven by a desperate need to escape the room, she lurched toward the open door.
Holding on to the door jamb for support, she stepped out of the room and paused in what appeared to be a long, servants’ corridor. She found herself staring down the corridor at an assembled group of well-dressed people who were deep in conversation.
Her eyes immediately locked on the slender, elegantly beautiful vision of her sister standing beside a tall, black-haired man Jemima could vaguely remember; only she couldn’t remember where she had seen him before. She watched as Eliza leaned against the tall, startlingly handsome man whose hands rested on her shoulders as he stared down the corridor at Jemima with something akin to horror on his face.
“Sweet Jesus,” Edward whispered, staring down the corridor in shock. His hard hands prevented Eliza from turning and seeing the spectre slowly gliding toward them.
“What the -” Dominic swore, dumbfounded into stunned silence as he watched the spectacle. His eyes wide with surprise, he turned as Peter appeared at his elbow. For a brief moment, their eyes met and held. Peter instinctively tensed, knowing he wouldn’t like this latest turn of events.
“What?” Peter snapped, in no frame of mind for any more ridiculous charades with the servants. Behind Dominic, Edward was staring, transfixed, at something further down the corridor. From his place just outside the doorway, Peter couldn’t see anything, but whatever it was had shocked Edward so badly he looked deathly pale, his jaw hanging open with stunned surprise.
Peter’s curiosity and temper surged, and his hand dropped to the wicked-looking dagger tucked into his belt.
“Is it Scraggan?” Peter whispered to a stunned-looking Sebastian, who slowly shook his head in silent reply.
Dominic suddenly jerked out of his trance and turned to Peter. “You need to -” he paused, clearly stuck for words. He looked askance at his friend, and moved to one side, gesturing behind him with one arm.
With a sigh of impatience, Peter brushed past him and Edward, who drew Eliza to one size and held her head close to his shoulder to prevent her from turning around.
Peter’s world stopped.
His breath locked in his throat.
The ground shifted beneath his feet.
He went cold, then hot.
His heart lurched in his chest, as a wave of shock swept through him that was so strong his fingers tingled and the vision became hazy.
Jemima?
Very pale; very thin. With unkempt hair, almost black with dirt, and her face so gaunt and pale that the dark shadows beneath her eyes stood out in stark contrast. She looked like a ghost. But she was walking. A walking ghost. Did ghosts walk?
His mind tried to assimilate what he was seeing. Jemima was clearly alive, and presently shuffling toward him.
He couldn’t believe it.
“Does everyone see what I am seeing?” Edward murmured to nobody in particular.
“What?” Eliza snapped. “What is it you are all seeing?” Losing patience with Edward’s restraint, she roughly pushed his hands from her shoulders and turned around, standing on tip-toes to peer over Peter’s broad shoulder. Her gasp was half-squeal as she stared into the haunting face of her sister, who had paused halfway down the corridor, and was now staring back at them in confusion.
“Please?” Jemima croaked, feeling the black swirling mist begin to take hold once more. Her eyes locked onto Peter’s, begging him to help her. Why were they just staring at her?
“Please help me?” Jemima murmured, putting a hand to her head in a vague attempt to stop it spinning.
Peter struggled to draw breath for fear of breaking the wonderfully enticing vision before him. Was she real? His mind just couldn’t take in this latest turn of events.
Was she alive? How could she be? She must be alive, his logical mind reasoned. She must be, because everyone else could see her.
On hollow legs he slowly moved toward her, fearful that she would simply vanish if he got too close, and this wonderfully startling moment would all turn out to be a dream.
Could ghosts appear so real? He wasn’t sure, but he had to know for certain. He had to touch her to find out. As he approached, he could smell the faint odour of the gaol on her clothing, and saw tiny bits of straw tangled in the wild mass of her hair.
Did ghosts appear that real?
He drew to a halt mere inches from her. She was so deathly pale she was almost translucent. She began to sway as she tipped her head back to look at him. Her wonderful amber eyes met his, so achingly familiar that he felt the sting of tears in his eyes.
“Jemima?” His voice was laden with all the pain, grief and longing in his shattered heart. His stunned gaze travelled over the delicate arch of her brow, the long slender nose, the high sweep of well defined cheekbones, to the soft, plump lips he had kissed so often they felt as familiar as his own.
He lifted a trembling hand to her face, the blunt edges of his fingers briefly resting on her cold cheek as he absorbed the sheer essence of her. She blinked slowly as she stared at him, the soft tickle of her breath brushing the back of his hand, as gently as a feather.
It was all the proof he needed. Although she was very cold, she was alive. His thumb brushed the side of her nose, and swept over the delicate arch of her high cheekbone, committing each curve to loving memory.
“You’re alive,” he whispered, his voice trembling with emotion. A single tear broke free of its restraint and meandered slowly down his lean cheek as he stared into the loving eyes of the woman before him.
He sensed her confusion as her eyes clouded at his words, and he wondered if she had any recollection of the morning’s events. Immediately, his eyes dropped to her throat and he studied the clear, unmarked skin visible above the neckline of her grimy dress.
She hadn’t been hanged.
Confusion warred with joy as he simply stood before her.
Cupping her almond-shaped face in his large palms, he slowly placed his forehead on hers, closing his eyes as he whispered her name for a brief moment. Whatever had happened earlier that morning, she was alive; she hadn’t been hanged and that was all that mattered. He sent a silent prayer of thanks to the heavens for their mercy.
“God, I love you Jemima,” he whispered, his voice trembling with emotion as he relished the faint, but steady, pulsing of flesh he could feel beneath his lips when hauled her into his arms and buried his face in the hollow at the base of her neck.
Jemima leaned against his solid warmth, savouring the hard length of his arms around her. She had ached for this moment for so long that she had begun to think it would never happen. Slowly sliding her hands around his waist, she clung to him as desperately as he clung to her and they revelled in the wonder of simply being together.
Jemima hiccupped. Although she had the wild urge to cry, no tears would come. She couldn’t seem to work her way through the thick fog that was clouding her mind. What was wrong with her?
For the first time since she had woken up in the room, she didn’t feel the urge to run for her life. Peter’s solid strength soothed her confusion, and gave her the strength she so desperately needed to remain upright. She wasn’t sure what had happened to her, or why Peter was so disturbed by her appearance, but now he was there, Jemima was certain everything would be alright.
Eliza suddenly appeared at her elbow, staring at her for several moments in stunned disbelief as tears cascaded down her face.
Peter reluctantly withdrew his arms, and allowed Eliza to embrace her in a perfumed embrace for several long moments. Although he stood back, he didn’t relinquish his hold on her, keeping his hand firmly on her back. He daren’t let go of her, even for a moment. He couldn’t bear the thought that she could simply vanish.
“Oh darling Jemima, I thought -” Eliza whispered around her sobs before placing a tender kiss on her cheek. “Oh God, I’m so glad, so very glad,” she whispered over and over as she held her.
Eventually Edward’s persistent hands on her shoulders drew Eliza back. Reluctantly she relinquished her hold on Jemima enough to allow Edward to stand before her.
“Let her get some space Eliza,” he chastised ruefully. His eyes met and held Jemima’s for several moments. He didn’t speak. He didn’t feel the need to, and knew from the look in her eyes, that Jemima understood. His eyes met and held those of his future sister-in-law’s in a silent communication that held a wealth of understanding.
Jemima’s lips quirked in a ghost of a smile that was so brief, he wasn’t sure he had seen it. After several moments Edward returned the smile full force and took her gently into his arms.
“Thank you for coming back to us,” he whispered, for her ears alone before he placed a gentle kiss on her cold cheek and released her, sliding an arm around Eliza and hugging her close to his side in jubilation. He was as stunned and confused as everyone else, but was eternally grateful to see his future sister-in-law alive, even if she was painfully thin and freezing cold.
“I don’t know how I did,” Jemima whispered back, glancing at Peter who had moved closer to slide his hand across her back. “I don’t understand any of it.”
She was aware of someone else standing at her elbow and she turned to stare up at him.
“None of us do, Jemima,” Dominic croaked, his own voice hoarse with emotion. “But I have never been one to question fate. Come here,” and he didn’t wait for her acquiescence. Despite their short acquaintance, he drew her into his arms just as gently as the others. His eyes met and held Peter’s in silent question for several moments, only for Peter to shrug. Eventually he released his hold, allowing Peter to move closer once more.
“Hey, what about me?” Sebastian’s voice trembled. He grinned at Jemima and hauled her close. “I refuse to be left out of such a defining moment of everyone’s lives. I deserve a hug too.” His voice was a mixture of disbelief and wonder.
Blinking against the sting of tears, Jemima’s wobbly smile evaporated as a wave of dizziness swept over her. Sebastian immediately released her and frowned as she turned, one trembling hand reaching out for Peter, who immediately grasped it and pulled her against him when she began to sway.
“Let’s get you out of here,” Peter muttered, sweeping her effortlessly into his arms. “You are so cold, and you must be starving.”
He didn’t wait for the others as he swept down the corridor, easing her carefully through the doorway and into the main body of the house.
Jemima couldn’t find the energy to protest, and rested her head weakly against Peter’s broad shoulder as he carried her through the house and up the stairs. She was nearly asleep by the time Peter deposited her gently on a bed that stood in the middle of a bedroom.
Battling the blackness, Jemima was vaguely aware of a flurry of activity within the room. It took all her remaining energy to open her eyes as the soft mattress dipped beside her. She wasn’t surprised to find Peter staring gently at her. The tenderness she saw reflected back at her warmed the deepest parts of her heart, that she had once considered frozen forever.
“I’ve missed you,” she whispered softly, summoning the strength to place a trembling hand against his chiselled jaw. She studied the changes in his face since the last time she had seen him.
Although still a rich mahogany, his hair was tinged with grey at the temples, giving him a mature, yet debonair look. There were dark circles beneath his beautiful dark blue eyes, indicating his rest hadn’t been peaceful of late, or frequent enough to sustain him. There were deeper grooves bracketing the firm lines of his lips, and more creases beside his eyes than she remembered. But it was his eyes that conveyed the most. There, in the shadows, was an inner torment that disturbed her: a glint of some deeper suffering that would remain with him throughout his life. She wondered what he had meant earlier when he whispered, “You’re alive.”
“Can I ask you something?” she whispered, suddenly needing to know as much as he could tell her.
“Of course - you can ask me anything,” Peter answered honestly, unable to resist placing a tender kiss on her dry, cracked lips.
“Why did you think I was dead?” She saw the instinctive flinch he wasn’t quick enough to hide and waited, knowing somehow that he had believed her dead, and this was the cause for the hidden shadows in his gorgeous eyes.
“You can’t remember?” The thick slashes of his brows drew downwards as he studied her.
Jemima shook her head slowly. “Nothing.” Her gaze locked with his. “Tell me.”
Peter shook his head regretfully. “I think you should get some rest first, and something to eat before we go into all of that.” He raised a hand when she took a breath to protest. “I will tell you my darling, of course I will, but we need to make you more comfortable first. When you are feeling a bit better, I will tell you anything you need to know.” At that moment, Peter couldn’t deny her anything – except the truth. The memories were too raw. He needed time to understand the latest twist before he could put the events of the past few days into any logical order.
Their brief moment of privacy was shattered as Eliza entered, closely followed by two maids.
“Now, Jemima and I are the same size, so we will need another dress,” she informed one of the maids, “oh, and the essentials. Could you ask Lady Isobel if we could impose on her good nature?”
All too soon a veritable army of maids and footmen arrived with buckets of steaming water, and a tin bath.
Within moments, Peter found himself unceremoniously shooed out of the room, and the door closed in his face. His last sight of Jemima was of her sitting on the side of the bed, holding a hand to her head. He cursed, staring at the wooden panelling on the door for several moments, before reluctantly turning on his heel and heading in search of the others.
With startling speed, Jemima found herself stripped and sitting shoulder-deep in the luxuriously warm water, watching her tattered and very smelly dress being eaten by the flames in the hearth, listening to Eliza bustle about the room, all efficiency and maternal fussing.
“That was the only dress I had,” she informed her sister ruefully, wondering what she was going to wear now.
“Isobel, Dominic’s wife, is sorting you out a couple of dresses to wear,” Eliza stated matter-of-factly as she began to help Jemima wash her hair. “The doctor has been summoned and should be here shortly, and Cook is preparing you a tray of food.”
Eliza’s actions were so mundane that Jemima found herself struggling to mentally keep up with her sister’s constant flow of chatter. Tiredness began to creep up on her as the wonderfully scented water in the bath began to soak the grime away, and soothe her aching limbs. Giving herself over to Eliza’s care, she submitted to the maid who was tasked with washing and then combing the wild mass of her hair, and listened as Eliza told her about the assorted family members currently residing at Havistock Hall.
Eventually, curiosity won through and as soon as her hair lay in neatly combed waves about her shoulders, she placed a gentle hand on Eliza’s, stilling the flurry of movement.
“Tell me what happened to me.” She knew that if anyone in the house wasn’t inclined to tiptoe around her, it would be Eliza.
“What do you remember?” Eliza asked cautiously, not wanting to bring unnecessary distress to her elder sibling.
“Not much. I have vague snatches of something sinister, but it vanishes before I can make sense of it. It’s all so very odd,” she frowned and stared at her knees. She had the distinct recollection of resting her head on them wearily, but couldn’t remember anything about her surroundings.
“Maybe we should update you later,” Eliza replied cautiously, picking up the brush and absently brushing Jemima’s already brushed hair.
“No, Eliza, now.” Jemima turned and placed her hands on Eliza’s, tugging them until her sister sat on the floor beside the tub facing her.
Eliza knew that Jemima wouldn’t give in until she had what she wanted. With a deep sigh, she stared at the wall thoughtfully for several moments.
“You were -” Eliza paused, and considered her words carefully, “we were told you had been hanged.” She sensed the tension in Jemima who simply sat and stared hard at her, clearly nonplussed.
“Where?”
“At Derby Gaol, where you were being held in the condemned cell until your execution this morning,” Eliza whispered, tears pooling in her eyes at the memory of Jemima’s arrival in the house mere hours ago.
It seemed such a long time now, and so many things had happened since that it was almost impossible to keep up with the emotions sweeping through her. “You were caught standing beside the dead bodies of the Mayor of Derby and his wife, with a knife and his pouch of coins in your hand.”
“I didn’t do it,” Jemima immediately protested, knowing with certainty that it was the absolute truth.
“We know. You were set up by Scraggan,” Eliza replied, her eyes remorseful as she studied the pale, gaunt face of her beloved elder sibling. Today had brought so many twists and surprises that she wasn’t sure what to make of it, but she was so very glad about the latest turn of events.
“Scraggan.”
Memory came flooding back, and Jemima had a sudden image of a grey haired, wiry man with black eyes and a scar across his chin. A smuggler.
“Peter,” Jemima whispered, thinking back to the moment when she had stepped out of that icy room, into the long corridor.
“He was there.”
“At the hanging?” Jemima gasped, putting her hand to her throat in horror. Only then did she think to feel the flesh around her neck, frowning at the unbruised skin beneath her fingertips.
Suddenly memories began to unfurl, and she stared into space as the scene of the night before replayed in her mind: Peter’s pleas for her to help herself, and her own heartbreak at having to leave him, knowing what lay in store for her.
She sucked in a sob and stared in horror at her sister.
“You remember.” Eliza didn’t need Jemima to confirm it. The trauma of the memories were clearly written on her face.
“I wasn’t hanged, was I?” She turned beseeching eyes upon Eliza, frantically searching the amber depths so similar to her own for the truth.
Eliza shook her head slowly, a deep frown marring her brow. “No, clearly you weren’t, but we were told you had been hanged. When the men brought you back here, your body was as lifeless as one of the departed. We all believed you had been hanged. You looked so deathly pale.”
Jemima was absently aware of a young maid topping up the water to make it warm again, but was lost to everything except the horrible memory of her final moments in Mr Simpson’s office.
“So why am I still alive?” Jemima frowned, and sat patiently as Eliza picked up the brush and began to comb her hair again. Clearly she felt better having something to do with her hands.
“We don’t know, but I get the distinct impression that Sir Dunnicliffe does,” Eliza replied, staring distractedly at the long, now silken, tresses in her hand. “It seems a little too convenient that he arrived here mere hours after you – your body.”
“Sir Dunnicliffe?” Jemima frowned, searching her memory but finding no trace of anyone of that name.
“When we found out where you were and what was going to happen to you, Dominic sent word to one of his contacts at the War Office, who in turn sent Sir Dunnicliffe to assist. When we got back to Havistock Hall,” Eliza glanced at her sister, “where you are now, Peter, Edward, Sebastian and Dominic immediately left again to try and get you out of the gaol.”
“Got back? From where?” Jemima asked, her brow puckered in confusion.
“I was going back to Padstow to check our secret hiding place. When you vanished from your job, I didn’t know if Scraggan had seen you and you had run to keep me safe. Edward, Peter, Sebastian and Dominic all escorted me,” Eliza replied, leaving the pertinent facts for a later date. “We were nearly there when we got news of your being in Derby Gaol. As soon as the men found out, we came rushing back to Leicestershire to help you.”
“I remember,” Jemima whispered, tears forming in her eyes at the memory of the raw pain on Peter’s face moments before she left the office. She turned solemn eyes to Eliza. “I gave Edward the papers.”
“I know, he gave them to me,” Eliza replied. “They are safe now. Dominic is going to see they get into the right hands at the War Office.”
“Who is this Dominic?” Jemima frowned at the ceiling, wondering if the rhythmic movements of Eliza brushing her hair were helping to calm both of them in some way.
“Dominic Cavendish is head of the Cavendish family. There are Dominic, Sebastian and Edward, who is the youngest,” her voice softening as she spoke Edward’s name.
Jemima thought back to the group in the corridor. “Edward was the man standing behind you in the servant’s corridor?”
“Yes,” Eliza paused, and smiled shyly at Jemima. “I should like for us to get married.”
Jemima wasn’t surprised, and felt a thrill of delight for her sister that was conveyed in the bright shine of joy in her amber eyes. “He loves you,” she declared with certainty, thinking of the protectiveness she had witnessed earlier.
Eliza nodded with a smile of satisfaction. “As I do him,” she whispered softly. She briefly considered telling Jemima about her own near death experience earlier that afternoon at the hands of Rogan Scraggan, but decided to leave that for another day, when Jemima was stronger.
“That’s excellent news, dear sister. Congratulations, I know you will be very happy together,” Eliza smiled softly at her sister, the first time she had smiled in many months.
Companionable silence settled over them for a few moments, each woman lost in her own thoughts.
Suddenly filled with the urge to discover the truth herself, Jemima turned her gaze to Eliza. “I’m exhausted, but nothing is going to stop me from asking this Sir Dunnicliffe a few questions of my own.”
“I will be right beside you,” Eliza promised. “But now let’s get you fed. Once you have eaten, you can see the doctor and get some rest. We will confront this Sir Dunnicliffe later, and get the truth out of him, even if Peter has to beat him to a pulp.”
Determination rang clear in her voice as she rose to her feet, clearly not expecting any objection from her sister.
Without further ado, Jemima was swathed in a wonderfully soft nightgown, and tucked into the huge bed moments before a knock on the door heralded the arrival of the doctor.