A Pair of Brown Eyes: Chapter 29

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*WARNING: Some bad language and violence —although of a kind you are likely to condone ;-P.

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Damn it! How many hotels were there in town? Andrew had lost the count. And how many were left for him to check? He was growing frantic. What if he couldn't find Claire in any of them? No, that was not a possibility to contemplate: he would find her. She and her husband must be somewhere, they must! They couldn't possibly be sailing towards England so soon, could they? Andrew prayed they weren't.

He sighed as he approached another entrance: let this be the one!

He saw him as soon as he entered the reception area. Mr. Richardson himself, in flesh and blood. Coming from a door on the other side of the hall. The bar, perhaps?

Andrew waited for him until he was within earshot. "Where's Claire? I need to speak to her."

The man didn't answer for a while, not giving out any external sign of remembering who he was. But recognition did dawn on him eventually, as Andrew was made acquainted with by a raised eyebrow. "I think you should refrain, Dr. Stuart, from addressing my wife by her Christian name." Those were his very first words. "Can you show no respect?"

Andrew paid no attention to the man's warning. "Where is she?", he repeated. Both men exchanged a glance, the coldness of the one Andrew gave no doubt mirroring the one he received. "I won't go from here until I see her."

"Well, you can't." Richardson's voice trembled slightly. "She's— resting at the moment."

Those words caused the room —or Andrew's heart— to become suddenly chilly. Was it a lie, or was it the truth? He would find out, no matter what. "At this hour of the day? Why? Is she sick?" Andrew then paused, waiting for a reaction: he got none, except for a single drop of sweat forming on Richardson's forehead. "Because if she is, then I insist on seeing her."

The man got pale. "It's nothing— I'm sure...", he wavered. Nothing? Andrew didn't like the sound of that nothing. And where did all that stammering come from?

Disregarding him, Andrew turned to the hotel clerk. "Quick. Give me Mr. and Mrs. Richardson's room number." The latter hesitated. "Come on! Haven't you heard that? A lady might be in need of a doctor, and I can do nothing to help her because her husband here won't give me her blasted room number!

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Finally, all three went upstairs and opened the door. Andrew decided he had the right to enter first, and was quick in gaining access to the room before the other two men. But the sight that opened up before him upon doing so was one which he wished would have been spared to him. His heart broke. A part of him died. In front of him, a green carpet; on top of it, Claire, motionless; beside her left arm, the missing bottle..., unopened; a little far off her feet, a fireplace poker.

He took a closer look at her bludgeoned features: dried up tears trailing down her cheeks, a number of hideous marks starting to form on her face. Then he turned to her chest: it moved up and down, if ever so slightly. She was alive! He saw nothing more.

He saw nothing more, but he did hear something. "She will be— all right—, won't she?", a hateful male voice spoke behind him. "She's prone to— exaggerating— sometimes—."

Was that the son a bitch's best excuse? Did he believe his own lies? Now Claire was exaggerating! Andrew didn't even bother to reply to the man. His fists would speak for him with much more eloquence.

"Hey, what are you doing?", Richardson said after receiving a blow to the jaw. "Leave me!"

Andrew asked the clerk to summon the police, then gave Mr. Richardson the only answer he deserved: another punch, this time to the nose. The man would soon learn what he did to women beaters: a charge for aggravated assault would surely be illustrative enough!

"Leave me!", Richardson repeated. Would he never get quiet? "You are a bachelor, no doubt, doctor." And still keeping that bravado in his voice. "Or else you'd be aware that wives need to be— disciplined from time to time..."

Disciplined? Claire, disciplined? The mere abomination of a word! The man who had harmed Claire so hideously had the nerve to claim she needed to be disciplined? And was this what he meant by discipline? Andrew would kill the bastard!

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Once Mr. Richardson was duly disposed of by the police, Andrew was left alone in the room with Claire's unconscious body for only company. Only then did he find the courage to approach her.

Shaking, he knelt beside her, felt for a pulse, brushed her face with the tip of a finger and, having ascertained her life was not in danger, Andrew pulled her to his chest. He tried to move her with the utmost regard, but, once he had her secured in his arms, all care was forgotten: he held her with all his might. "What has he done to you?", he whispered in her ear, the sound of her almost imperceptible breathing being the only thing she could give in the form of an answer.

After a while, Andrew came back to his senses, the voice of the medical man taking the place of that of the afflicted lover. Much as he would have wished to hold her like that forever, it was unwise —and reckless, and self-centered— to leave her unattended any longer: he wouldn't fail her when she needed him the most.

He released her just enough to have a better view of her frame, and rested her head on his lap. Her breathing was slight but steady: that was a good sign. Some blood was dripping down her mouth: that was a bad sign. The blood amounted to very little: again a good sign. She hadn't even stirred: another bad sign. It all spoke of a fractured rib, perhaps more than one. A closer inspection confirmed his suspicions, and he couldn't help but remember the discarded poker still resting at her feet: Andrew shuddered.

Unfortunately, there was not much he could do without his medical instruments; he needed to take her to the clinic, at once. Andrew fastened her corset a little tighter so as to keep her ribs in place. Then, he scanned the room in search of some warm clothes to put around her, but there was nothing to be found except for her coat, which laid in a corner, torn to shreds: Andrew was once again reminded of that poker, and once again he shuddered. Not giving it much thought, he grabbed his own jacket, wrapped her up in it, and took her in his arms. He just hoped not to distress her body by the sudden movement, and that the makeshift bandage would last until they were home, safe.

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Author's note.- At first I was loath to go to that "knight in shining armour/damsel in distress" routine —no, scratch that, it's a lie, LOL: all along I've known it would end like this!—, but this is how the story makes sense to me, and, while I know I don't need to justify myself, I just want to clarify a few things, because...

Because this is Andrew's story almost as much as it is Claire's, and he deserved to be given the chance to act chivalric; because Claire needed it, and she had already done everything in her power to help herself; because, by who the characters are, I didn't see it happening any other way; because real strength sometimes implies accepting the help of others; because I don't see it as a man helping out a woman, but as a human being helping another who happens to be in need; and because I'm sure there were many men just like Andrew, who believed that their women shouldn't, under any circumstances, be "disciplined". Just saying!

On a different note, I know may have seemed a little... aloof lately, and there is an "explanation" for it: we're approaching the ending of this story (only two more chapters to go, if everything goes according to plan), which means that I'm struggling more than my usual share, then straining a little, then procrastinating a little, then feeling horribly sad for a little, and in general not feeling like blogging. I'm sure you'll understand how I'm feeling, so I won't go into any boring detail: JUST A REALLY HUGE THANK YOU FOR ALWAYS BEING THERE AND BEARING WITH ME!