A Scandal By Any Other Name

Tears began to roll down her cheeks as the light slowly faded away.

As the golden light vanished, a deep, heavy darkness took its place.

Delaney started feeling the physical world again. She felt the thick warmth of the heavy blankets covering her body. She felt the soft linen pillows beneath her head. And then, a dull, throbbing pain returned to her temples.

Slowly, the muffled sounds of the real world began to reach her ears.

She started hearing voices. They were quiet, hushed, and very serious. They were coming from just outside a door.

"...I do not know, Your Grace," a man’s voice said with a heavy sigh. It was the voice of an older, educated gentleman. "It is as if she simply does not want to wake up. Her body is resting, but her mind is far away."

Delaney lay perfectly still, her eyes closed, listening to the conversation.

"It has been an entire week," the doctor continued, his tone apologetic but factual. "But there has been absolutely no improvement in her conscious state. A hard hit to the head is an incredibly sensitive topic. The brain is a delicate thing. Anything can happen in these cases. I will come back tomorrow morning to check up on her again."

Out in the wide, carpeted hallway of Hamilton House, Rowan ran his hands roughly through his hair.

He was incredibly frustrated. He was entirely exhausted, and his heart was breaking a little more with every passing day.

This older gentleman was the fourth doctor he had hired this week. He had brought in the finest, most expensive physicians in all of London. He had brought in doctors who treated the King himself. And all of them were saying the exact same, frustrating thing.

We must wait. We do not know. She might wake up, or she might not.

Rowan had not slept a full night since the trial. He had sat in a chair next to her bed, holding her cold hand, praying to God for her to simply open her hazel eyes.

After the doctor locked the latch of his black leather bag, Rowan managed to offer a polite, tight nod.

He saw the doctor off at the top of the grand staircase. He turned to his loyal butler, who was standing quietly nearby.

"Mr. Simmons," Rowan instructed, his voice flat and tired. "Please handle the payment for the doctor. Give him whatever he asks."

"Right away, Your Grace," Mr. Simmons bowed respectfully and escorted the doctor down the stairs.

Rowan turned around to walk back to his bedchamber.

As he turned, he saw his Aunt Margery walking slowly down the hallway toward him.

Margery looked deeply tired. The usual bright, cheerful energy she carried was completely gone. She wore a simple dark morning dress, her face lined with worry.

Aunt Margery stopped in front of Rowan. She looked up at her nephew, seeing the dark, heavy shadows beneath his eyes.

"How is she?" Margery asked. Her voice was quiet and filled with worry.

Margery still vividly remembered the gruesome, terrifying sight of Delaney from a week ago. She remembered standing in the foyer when Rowan had carried the young woman through the front doors. Rowan had brought Delaney in wearing a torn, incredibly dirty white wedding dress. Delaney had a blood-soaked cloth wrapped tightly around her head, and dark, ugly bruises shaped like a man’s fingers on her throat. It was a sight that gave Margery terrible nightmares.

Rowan let out a long, shaky breath. He looked down at the carpet.

Rowan replied, his voice cracking slightly with despair. "They are all saying the exact same thing, Aunt Margery. They do not know. They say she is sleeping, but she will not wake."

Margery stepped forward. She reached out and held Rowan’s large, trembling hand in her own. She squeezed it tightly, offering him all the maternal strength she possessed.

"She will wake up soon, Rowan," Margery said firmly, looking directly into his desperate eyes. "I can feel it in my heart. She is a very strong girl. She survived terrible monsters. She will not let a bump on the head defeat her."

Rowan nodded slowly, trying to absorb her comforting words. "I pray you are right, aunt."

Margery offered him a small, encouraging smile. She patted his hand gently.

"Go back inside," Margery instructed him softly. "Go and keep her company. Talk to her. They say people can sometimes hear you when they sleep. I will go down to the kitchens and meet with Ines. Harry has been crying, refusing to eat."

Rowan nodded again. "Thank you, Aunt. Thank you for everything."

Margery released his hand and walked away toward the back stairs.

Rowan took a deep, steadying breath. He turned the brass handle of the door and pushed it open quietly, trying not to make a sound.

He stepped into the large, dimly lit bedchamber. The heavy velvet curtains were drawn slightly, casting a soft, peaceful shadow over the large four-poster bed. A warm fire crackled quietly in the marble fireplace.

Rowan closed the door behind him and walked slowly toward the bed.

He expected to see Delaney lying perfectly still, her eyes closed, looking like a beautiful, sleeping statue, exactly as she had looked for the past seven days.

But as Rowan stepped closer to the edge of the bed, he stopped dead in his tracks.

Delaney was awake.

She was lying quietly against the soft white pillows. Her hazel eyes were wide open, staring blankly up at the ceiling of the bedchamber.

She was not moving, but she was crying.

Silent, steady tears were streaming rapidly down the sides of her face, soaking into the white linen pillowcases. They were the lingering tears from the beautiful, heartbreaking dream of her parents.

Rowan’s heart leaped violently in his chest. He could barely believe what he was seeing.

He took a quick, desperate step forward, falling to his knees on the carpet right beside the bed. He reached out with trembling hands.

"Delaney?" Rowan said.

His voice was filled with a mixture of sheer disbelief and worry.