Felicity: An American Girl ROMANCE Pt3, Ch.15: Withdrawals

She ran until her lungs were burning and her chest hurt. She couldn't breathe with her mouth shut and her very own pulse was banging in her ears. The headache that had begun earlier as a result of lack of powders was coming back full force. She had to slow down whether she wanted to or not, if only to catch her breath and try to think. But Felicity Merriman did not want to think. The fear of being overcome by emotion; terror, anger, sadness, the whole gamut of human feelings would crush her, she would go numb from the weight of it all and just go mad. Now was not the time to go mad.

Instinct just screamed at her to run until she dropped, wherever that might be.

The ground beneath her feet would rise, letting her know that she was going uphill. Several times she stumbled, tripped or fell, but regained her footing and got back up each time. The insane fear that she was being pursued kept her fleeing, when in reality she was not being chased at all. But she was unconvinced of that. Now that she was out of Forsythe Manor she was damned determined not to go back. Ever. Enough of that.

There were times when she would run blindly into something, like bushy hedges, which she would just backup and try to jump over or plow through, and waist-high stone barriers, which she would have to climb, banging knees and shins alike. Several times her petticoats ripped but she did not care. Nothing meant more than getting as far away from Forsythe Manor as possible.

It was what Lettie wanted.

Eventually, after having been at a run at different speeds for what felt like hours (in reality only two), she had to stop, had to sit down, had to breathe and get ahold of her mind somehow. Her sore feet just couldn't go any further. Apparently she was on a hillside dotted with rocks of assorted sizes. She sat down on one of those and could feel the coldness of it beneath her her petticoats and dress. But her adrenaline had not yet worn off. The cold was not yet affecting her other than making her chest hurt when she wheezed. She gripped her knees with her trembling hands as her sides heaved from exertion. Her wilde, wild eyes stared at the black ground, seeing only the night that surrounded her.

Damn how her head hurt!

She absently felt the knife that Lettie had thrown to her over the fire in her pocket. What good would that do her now? She considered taking it and throwing it, then changed her mind. She was all alone, in England, in the dark, without a clue as to what to do or where to go. Could she actually relay on the kindness of strangers? Her fear screamed no. She clasped her head in both hands for a moment, trying to think, trying to focus, but now her head hurt more than anything else, physically. Oh, this was bad. This was happening all to fast.

She had to keep going. This was no time to sit idle. She was most likely being missed at the manor by now, very likely being hunted now, so sitting on a rock in the middle of a hillside-field was not the best idea, in her opinion. She remembered her grey woollen cloak had a hood, so she put it on. She stumbled but continued.

Damned if the country outside of Bristol wasn't the hilliest place ever!

Eventually the ground beneath her even out. She kept her arms moving out in front and to her sides in an awkward attemp to keep herself from running into or colliding with anything else besides hedges and rock fences. The sky above her had cleared and was now full of magnificent stars, not that she possessed the mind to see them. She sensed something close, something dense, and feeling around discovered tree bark. Pine needles. She had come into woods of some sort. She briefly recalled seeing forested hillsides and patches of thick trees on the landscape around the manor and around Bristol. Fine. She was in the woods. That meant she was hidden from view. Not that anyone was after her at the moment.

Exhaustion was suddenly irresistable. It couldn't be long until morning, not now. When the sun came up she would...she had no idea what she would do. Her head was throbbing mercilessly. It hurt to think. In fact, it hurt to continue standing. She swallowed despite a dry mouth and stumbled into the low pine boughs she's felt around her moments earlier, pushed them aside carelessly. Instict told her to lay down. It would not be long til morning. Maybe she would feel better, just enough to think clearly and figure something out, figure out what to do. As she assumed, it was dry around the pine tree trunk. Dry and carpeted with pine needles.

The memory of playing hide-and-seek with Nan and William under the thick, ground-sweeping branches of pine trees flickered through her mind even as she sank to the base of the tree. She pulled her hood around her face as much as it would go, gathered the woollen cloak about her as much as it would go, and curled up, flattening her ripped skirts and petticoats around her legs tightly. Thank the Lord her dress was made of heavy fabric for winter. She could finally feel the sting of cold, but it was not bad. Not right now, anyway. She pulled the cloak tight and laid her head upon pine needles.
A wave of relenting submission crashed over her and she fell asleep before she could give much thought to anything else.

Felicity Merriman did not dream, not as far as she knew, anyway. She twitiched and jerked under the pine tree where she lay, then eventually jerking herself awake. It was no longer completely dark. The world was slate grey and foggy. At last winter's chill had caught up with her and she was shivering. Time to get up, time to move.

She sat up and was immediatey struck with her headache. Her vision swam and she was shaking not just from cold, but from lack of powders. And on top of that, she was nauseous. Incredibly, she felt the very same way she did the first time she'd ever had the powders, only now 'twas because a lack of them! Her body felt so absolutely empty, like she was made of nothing more than air, but her head was splitting with pain! Her hair had completely come loose from its pinnings, wadded about her face underneath the woollen hood. But she had to get up and move or sit there and freeze to death. They would be looking for her now, if they were not already. Yes, no matter how horrible she was feeling, she had to go. There had to be some decent folks around here who would help her.

Had to be.

She struggled to her feet, wavering, groaning, clutching her head. Felicity pushed out of the pine branches and wiped her blurred eyes, but that did little to help her vision. There weemed to ba a cannonball in her head wanting very much to burst! But she was determined to go, to put more distance between herself and Forsythe Manor. There was no sun, but fog and grey light. Still, she squinted. She staggered out into the fog in no particular direction, winding among the trees, trying feeblily not to trip over anything. There seemed to be a clearing ahead, so she ambled toward it, having no plan at all if she should encounter...whatever.

When Felicity emerged from the woods, she saw yet another hillside field, half hidden in the mists. Warily, she felt she she had no choice but to go up it and see what was on the other side. Hopefully there would be a house. Good God, didn't these pstures have farmers that kept them? Oh, her head hurt so bad she wanted to scream. At the top of the hillside was-what else?- a barrier made of rocks and stone. She sat down on it, tried not to cry from her head banging, swung her legs over it then slipped off onto the damp ground. 'Twas fortunate that the hard rock fence was there, for it gave her something to assist in getting herself back up with. Her vision swam like mad still. And now she had to go back down hill!

Felicity did not trust her own eyesight. Not feeling like this. She thought she saw rooftops. Could've sworn she saw rooftops. Wasn't possible, was it? With a hand to her forehead, she staggered along, very close to just dropping and rolling (after all, 'twould get her to the bottom of the hillside much faster) Her mind was spinning, she couldn't focus, couldn't see clearly. Didn't want to. Her hand clamped over eyes for just a second, and then she ran right into something about thigh-high and fell over it. Thunk!

Felicity felt as if fireworks were literally going off in her head, complete with lights, boomings, and rattlings. She uttered a helpless whimper without even realizing that she had made a sound at all. Now her arms and legs felt utterly boneless. She did understand that she had just fallen over something, and blinked weakly around at what the something was.

Hell fire and damnation. She had just fallen over a sheep.

The young, fluffy ovine hadn't even run away. It just stared at her with its soft brown eyes and bar-like pupils. Apparently, it was used to humans. And apparently, it was not alone. Following the swimming motion of her head, she saw other four-footed fluffly clouds dotting the hillside as far as the fog would let her see. For a moment, Felicity just blinked and let her vision dip and blurr as it pleased. And then it occurred to her, in her powder-addicted brain, that these sheep might not be real. Maybe she had just fallen over an imaginary sheep. Now the sloping hillside was full of imaginary sheep! Good Lord, they even made imaginary sheep-sounds!

Maybe these sheep are Forsythe-sheep! she worried deliriously. Maybe I have just gone in a big cirlce and now I'm back on the manor grounds among the sheep! I cannot trust my own whereabouts! Or am I even anywhere at all? Best get up and run some more.

Much to her surprise, one of the sheep wandered up to her and sniffed her. In fact, several balls of cotton were moving towards her. But in Felicity's state of mind, combined with a killer headache, she believed them to be imaginary. She struggled to get up off the cold damp ground by grabbing ahold of one cottony ewe and instantly clutched her head. This had to mean she was going to die. How could anything hurt so bad in a person and yet they lived!

Oh God. What was that she was hearing now? Horse hooves on the grass? Coming closer? Surely they could not be coming from inside her head, too! Her breathing began to accelerate, the pounding in her head keeping tempo just as furiously. Coming from the top of the hill, behind her. A gutteral groan escaped her throat and she ran, blindly, just running, breathing loud, nearly crying. If it was indeed a horse, then the horse had a rider. and that rider was most likely one of Reginald Forsythe's men!

I will NOT go back! I won't I won't I wont! They will have to kill me first! But I think that my head shall crack open and kill me before THEY can. This has got to end! I can't take it anymore! I can't! It hurts so much! Yes, 'tis time now!

"You there!" a man's voice called, as a white horse emerged out of the fog, its rider clad in a dark hat, long cloak and shiny riding boots. Felicity shrieked uncontrollably and ran. In her petticoat pocket she felt the knife meant to kill Tristan Forsythe with, and fumbled for it. She was going to end this once and for all. Like she should have done from the very start of this whole nightmare. She would end this being chased constantly, having her life and innocence threatened every damn day, battling hate and sorrow and this wretched, cannonballing headache!

"Stop!" hollored the man as Felicity whirled around to face him, knife in hand, eyes wild with pain and fear.

"Don't come near me!" she screamed, her stance like that of a demented young witch about to flee or attack, either one. "I know who you are and why you're here! I won't go back! Never! I'll roast in hell before I go back!"

And with the knife, she sliced into her own wrist .

Lord Eric Covington, second Duke of Belhastings, was out for his usual morning ride along the edges of his grand estate. 'Twas more for his peace of mind than his daily tour of seeing that all was well. even on misty, crisp mornings like this, a lone ride was his own version of a meditative start to the day. And every morning for the past three and a half years, he meditated on only one thing: his beloved late wife Evangeline. She had loved riding, had said she felt very close to God when she was riding. The duke found this to be very agreeable. He found he felt very close to his wife when he was out riding.

And every morning as he had done for the past three and a half years since Evangeline's untimely death in childbirth, he mentally asked her What would you have me do today, my darling? What business would you have me attend to first? How would you have me handle it? And most of the time he would return to Bel Hall with his answers, solutions, or better understandings of whatever issues needed attention, because he felt that Evangeline's spirit had guided him to the right courses.

The duke was not a hard man, but a thoughtful one. A quiet sort, slow to upset, soft-spoken and keeping mostly to himself. His age put him at thirty-two, but since his wife's passing he had been feeling all of eighty-two. He was a well-built gentleman, reasonably handsome, even described as dashing by the gossips of local society. His hair was dark brown and well-groomed beneath the aristocratic tricorn he wore, his eyes a deep dark blue- the kind of eyes that sparkled when he wore his boyish smile, but that sparkle had not been seen much at all in the past three and a half years. Nor the boyish smile. There had been precious little to smile about. His only living child was living with Evangeline's family in Bath. Aside from the loyal staff of his houselhold and the good people who worked his land he was alone and isolated in life.

Another question he asked his deceased beloved every morning was What curiosities are you sending my way today, darling? Sometimes his answer would come in the form of her voice in his mind, sometimes it would come in the form of something someone else said.

But today the answer came in the form of a staggering, weeping young girl about to take a tumble down the hillside that his sheep had been turned out on.

From a distance he had seen her run into and then fall right over one of his ewes. She couldn't be a sheep-thief if she could not see one standing still right in front of her! The hood of the dirty cloak she was wearing had fallen back to reveal a head of deep red hair. The girl clutched at her head as though she was ill. In fact, she moved and wailed like she was very striken with something indeed. The girl's skirts were ripped, too. Something was very wrong with the willowy thing.

"You there!" he called, turning his white mount toward the wavering, thin figure that shrieked when she saw him and began running in the opposite direction. She obviously did not know where in the world she was going. Even as she stumbled and nearly fell time and time again, she was groping for something ina pocket underneath her cloak.

"Stop!" the duke yelled, pulling the white horse, named Perks (because of the stallion's constant alertness), up short just as the frightened girl whirled about to face him. In her trembling right hand she waved a knife dangerously. Wild green eyes glazed over with mindless fear met his dark blue ones as he stared at the poor little thing, so obviously ill.

"Don't come near me!" the girl screamed at him in a voice that was not english-accented. American, perhaps? "I know who you are and why you're here! I won't go back! Never! I'll roast in hell before I go back!"

And where on earth did the terrified figure come from? Bedlam? Couldn't have. New Bethlem Mental Hospital was miles and miles away in London. She didn't look like anyone from around here, nor like any mere house servant he'd ever seen. If her dress was clean, it would be a lady's day dress. Maids did not wear day dresses. A curiosity indeed!

He sensed something desperate in the way the girl held the knife. She was quite possibly going to harm herself, because she certainly was in no condition to attack him, not that he was getting the feeling she would. In concern for her he began to dismount, but she took that as a sign of impending doo, and sliced her own wrist with alarming accuracy and swiftness.

"No!" she cried out, too terrified to feel the pain she was inflicting upon herself. She backed away from him, wild-eyed and felly intent on not being stopped. The knife switched hands and she proceeded to slice into the other wrist, the blood welling up fast and spilling in streams, dripping onto the grass. She sobbed, dropping the knife, only then realizing what she had just done to herself, and that it hurt very much. Even as Lord Eric Covington advanced she screamed, wavered, then collapsed in a heap just as he got to her, catching her in arms that were as firm as oak branches. But Felicity Merriman wasn't conscious to know that. The combination of everything she had endured in the past three months had finally caught up with her, not to mention the physical afflictions she was under.

The duke lowered her quickly onto the grass and pulledl at his own shirt in haste, yanking handfuls of it out of the of his dark breeches beneath his waistcoat. Without thinking he tore at the rich cotton linen, making strips of his shirt tails, then grabbing each of the girl's bleeding wrists to bind them as fast as he could. She hadn't lost too much blood as a result of her actions, but she needed tending to right away. Getting her back to Bel Hall would take too long, so the best course of action would be to get her to the nearest house, which would be the cottage of Squire Babcock just around the next hill. The Squire's wife was good with wounds...when it came to sheep, anyway. Surely this strange girl's bony wrists could be mended without much more delay.

'Twas not difficult for the duke to get himself and the girl upon Perks. Routine physical activity kept the man in good condition, and Felicity weighed practically little in his grip. He urged Perks into a canter and headed for the cart path at the bottom of the hill. It would take him around the bend and directly to the Babcock house.

My goodness, Eve darling, you certainly know how to make things interesting, even now! Lord Covington thought, feeling both bewildered and fascinated. Who was this girl and why was she so stricken? How on earth did she end up here, on his estate, in such a condition? So, my love, you have a sent a mystery unto me, eh? I suppose there is a meaning behind all of this? And in his mind it seemed as though his precious Evangeline was smiling down upon him mysteriously from the Heavens.

Eve always did love a mystery.

"Mercy me!' exclaimed the rotund, normally pleasant faced Babcock when she opened her cottage door to the Duke of Belhastings...with an unconscious red-headed girl in his arms. As soon as she curtsied she saw blood drips on the girl's gown and gaped, even as she stepped back to allow the duke in with his unusual package. "My Lord! What is this?"

"I'm not sure, Mrs. Babcock. I found her up where the sheep are turned out. Her wounds need immediate attention. Mrs. Babcock!"

"Goodness gracious!" The pink-cheeked, brunette woman of about forty exclaimed. "Is she a sheep-thief, m'lord? Did ye have to shoot her?"

"Nay, Mrs. Babcock!" The duke hefted the girl in his arms awkwardly. "is there somewhere here I can..."

"Oh! Oh, yes, m'lord! Do come this way." Snapping out of her surprise, Mrs. babcock bustled her way past the duke, gesturing urgently, forgetting that she had left the door half-open. Lord Covington followed, taking care not to bang Felicity's head or ankles into the walls of the passage into the bedchambers. From outside there was the sound of rambunctious children already at play, most likely the Babcock's son and daughters. 'Twas a blessed relief that the fiesty youngsters were not inside to be underfoot and crowding around.

The Babcocks were a pleasant lot, decent country folks who delighted in working their land, attending church, their neighbors in the nearby village, and in themselves, even if they were a bit...eccentric. Evangeline had adored the Babcock children, and whatever Evangeline found to be good and worthwhile the duke, too, found it to be the same. Squire Babcock was a funny, full-bellied fellow who fancied himself to be the duke's closest of friends, and therefore a man worthy of rank, but the duke did not mind this. It was actually quite amusing, back when he found things amusing. Squire Babcock loved his dinner and his ale, then to sit around with a full pipe and tell stories to those who would listen about the adventures of his youth, most of which were greatly exaggerated or too impossible to be true. Yet one could not help but be drawn into the fun by the way he told his tales. 'Twas like he was merely a large child.

At one time, the duke's son Thomas had come to play daily with the Babcock children here. That had been three years ago. Felt like decades to Lord Covington, who felt as though every day since his wife's passing was a year lost.

Mrs. Babcock ushered the duke and his strange parcel into a room belonging to the three daughters. There were three beds, the largest of which belonged to the eldest girl, near the room's wide window. She flipped down the quilt and sheets and stepped back. "She can use Marvel-Anne's bed, m'lord. I sincerely doubt Marvel-Anne will compl;ain of having to share with one of her sisters on cold nights like we're having."

"Thank you, Mrs. Babcock." Gently, Lord Covington laid the still unconscious Felicity down on the soft bed and immediately took each of her wrists in turn to inspect them. He had bound each one tight, hoping to stanch the bleeding, but apparently the cuts were deep, for the undrside of the wrappings had quickly reddened. Behind him, Mrs. Babcock gasped softly. He turned around to her. "You are good with wounds, dear lady. Can you help this girl on my behalf?"

"Certainly!" Mrs. Babcock replied right away, going for the door. She paused only briefly to inquire, "Shall I have one of the children fetch the doctor for you?"

Lord Covington looked back down at Felicity, contemplating. This obviously ill young woman had cried something about "not wanting to go back," and preferring to "roast in hell" before she ever went back. She had said she knew who he was and why he was there. But she did not know who he was, for her terrified delirium made her believe he was someone who would be chasing her. Why did she think she was being chased? What was so horrible about where she had run from that she would rather be dead than return to? The duke furrowed his brow, thinking. He certainly wasn't going to get any answers just standing there staring down at her! She needed help.

"My Lord?" asked Mrs. Babcock at the bedchamber door.

"Is your husband about, Madame?'

"Oh nay, m'lord, 'e went into the village to see about purchasing a new spade. You know, for whacking moles with." She smiled good-naturedly. " 'Tis mostly what 'e does these days, lure the nasty lil' things up out of their holes so that 'e can take his tools and whack-whack-whack them over their lil' heads-"

"Mrs. Babcock," the duke interjected gently, his patience trying not to thin with it still being morning, "our young guest here needs medical attention. I trust your skills in wound care are sufficient enough to help her. I am further trusting that we will learn more about her before we consult outside help. Would you not agree?"

"Oh yes indeed, m'lord," agreed Mrs. Babcock readily. "I shall fetch my things and attend to her right away."

"Thank you, Mrs. Babcock." He turned back to the red-head lying still on the bed. He knew how to feel for a pulse and did so, at the soft spot under her jaw near the ear. There was one, weak, but present. He went so far as to untie her cloak at the throat and open it. She was thin and so very pale. "Who are you, young Miss?" the duke inquired, mostly to himself, as he inspected Felicity's pixie-face for signs of abuse. "Why do you suppose Evangeline has sent you to me, hmm?"

There was the sound of four sets of clomping, adolescent feet, and there appeared in the doorway a blond girl of about ten, beside her an equally blonde girl of seven, both gaping quietly at their neighbor, the duke, bending over a strange young woman in one of their beds. The woman had blood on her dress and on the wraps around her wrists, and was clearly not awake. The duke turned his head and smiled at them politely. "Good morning, little ladies."

"Good morning, my lord," the two girls said in unison, curtsying as if they were repeating lessons. 'Twas not as if the duke was a stranger to them, but they had been taught to show respect for the upper class, and Mother would skin them like little conies if they dare forget their manners. They had come into the cottage to find their mother hurrying about, gathering her medicinal things so that she could "help the wounded young lady The duke brought to them," and that they should "stay out of their room until she was fjnished assisting the duke."

So naturally, they had to come see what the fuss was about.

"Who is that?" inquired the eldest of the two girls, Marvel-Anne, who had big brown eyes full of innocent but energetic curiosity. "Is she a princess?" Marvel-Anne was enamoured of princesses. She had decided to become one when she grew up.

"Nay, dear-one," the duke smiled softly. "At least I do not think so. I have nary a clue as to who she is. She will have to tell us when she wakes up."

"Is she dead?" asked the younger sister, her wide brown eyes just as full of wonder as her older sister's. But unlike Marvel-Anne, she found blood and things of physick to be grossly fascinating. "Or has she been bled?"

"Poppy! Marvel-Anne!" scolded Mrs. Babcock as she pushed past them with a basin of hot water held to her roundy stomach with one hand and a box the children were very familiar with as "Mother's Box of Physick" held to herself with her other hand. "Do get out of the way! Go back outside and watch over your brother and sister. They'll fall right down into the well out of spite if you don't!"

"But Mama," said little Poppy Babcock, craning her neck and hopping up and down to try to get a better view of the unconscious stranger around the bulk of the grown-ups, "Rex and Pudding only want to tease the goat. I don't want to tease the goat. He gets angry."

"Oh rubbish! If the goat gets mad and butts you, then you've earned it! And put your capes back on, it isn't spring!"

"Yes, Mama," the girls sang in unison, both with a disappointed sigh. But they loved visitors, especially mysterious ones! 'Twas rare to get a mysterious visitor these days! Couldn't Mother see that?With tremendous reluctance, the two sisters left the doorway, although Marvel-Anne suggested they try taking peeks through their bedroom window from the outside. Poppy found this a good plan.

Meanwhile, with the duke watching , Mrs. Babcock cleaned Felicity's slashed wrists, commenting that the girl had been well on her way to bleed to death and 'twas a good thing that he brought her here when he did. She stitched the cuts up as best she could, which was certainly better than any doctor's work the duke had ever seen, and he told her so, much to the delight of the Squire's giddy wife. Of course, the stitiched gashes were a disturbing sight, not too pleasant to look at, but that could be temporarily remedied with wraps of clean linen. The duke exited the room while Mrs. Babcock removed Felicity's clothes, leaving her clad in only her shift, and pulled the covers up over the girl's chest. The tangled red tresses would have to be combed out once she woke, but it was hard to tell when that would be, for Felicity was sleeping so heavily that not even the stitching together of her sliced wrists stirred her.

But she dreamed. Oh, how she dreamed. She dreamed of being chased by something dark and frightneing to look at, and no matter how hard she tried to make her legs move they would not do as she wanted them to. And she dreamed of Ben, who did not love her anymore, which was a nightmare unto itself, and she dreamed about Tristan Forsythe attacking her. The latter dream had her tossing and turning, screaming herself awake with wild eyes and sore hands clenching fisfuls of bedsheet. It had to be late that afternnon that the duke brought her to the Babcock cottage. The duke was still there, hoping that his mysterious charge would wake before he had to get back to Bel Hall for the evening, and had just dined with the Babcocks when the terrible shrieking began.
"Lord have mercy!" exclaimed Squire Babcock, who had just lit his after-dinner pipe and was just about to light into a tale of outrageous boyhood pranks as well.

The five-year-old daughter, Pudding, began to cry, slapping her hands over her little ears. The only son, Rex, who was six, jumped up and down excitedly. Poppy and Marvel-Anne jumped up from their sewing lessons to follow the hurrying grown-ups to their bedchamber where their unidentified 'guest' was shrieking so loud they believed the donkey might start braying out in the barn any moment.
Indeed Felicity Merriman had awoke, but she simply wasn't herself The powders were still exiting her system, and her system wanted them back, wanted more to make the wretched headache go away. So she woke with the same hellish headache she'd had on the hillside earlier, when the duke found her. But she was not aware that she'd been found, much less who had found her and that she was currently safe. Her frenzied green eyes stared out at nothing in particular. She clutched her head head with hands that seemed awfully sore to move, for some reason. She shook and shivered despite a fire in the cozy cottage bedchamber's little fireplace.

Mrs. Unguin Babcock reached her first, sitting down beside her to grasp her by the shoulders and soothe her to be quiet in a most motherly way, for mothers were very good at that sort of thing. But Felicity had no awareness about her at all. She stared hysterically at something only she could see, absorbed in horrible pain only she could feel. Even as Mrs. Babcock "Shhh"ed and "There-there now"ed her with a firm but gentle voice, she moaned and yelled how her head hurt, how her body felt as if were going to burst, and that she pleasepleaseplease needed the powders to make it all stop.

"Shouldn't ye get the doctor now, m'lord?" Squire Babcock asked nervously, his pipe having fallen right out of his mouth somewhere along the way to his daughters' bedchamber. "She seems a bit...stricken."

"Let us wait," the duke replied, watching the squire's wife ease the terrified girl back down onto the pillow. "If we get the doctor, he might want to investigate her situation- which he would do with good intentions, of course, but I sense there is something to be revealed here that perhaps we should not be hasty about until she can speak coherently."

"Good advice, m'lord," agreed the squire with a vigorous nod. But even if the duke had recommend the town sherrif be fetched immediately, Rufus Babcock would have found that to be good counsel as well. The squire knew not what to make of the situation at all, just that his good neighbor, the duke, had found an ill young woman wandering about his property and brought her here to be seen after. Not that he minded, but he tended to rely on the judegements of others rather than his own. It made being married to temperamental wife much easier.

Mrs. Babcock looked up at the duke. "What d'ye suppose she means by 'the powders'? Have you ever heard of such a thing?"

As a matter of fact, the duke had. He scratched his chin thoughtfully as Felicity continued to toss and turn woefully on the bed, moaning of her head. He inhaled slowly. "There was a time, not long after Thomas was born, that Evangeline...miscarried." A lump of emotion rose in his throat that he had to force back down. "The doctor in the villiage then, , he had given her some white powders in a vial to take for pain. He had said that they were being used quite successfully in London, and that they should help her recover. But my wife found them addicting. I took them from her and she was sick for a time after that without them, but she did recover..." Until she tried to give birth again, he thought angstfully. "Perhaps the girl has been given such a medication that she is now without."

The squire blinked curiously at Felicity. "D'ye suppose she's a criminal of sorts?"

The duke sighed. "My sense of reason seems to be thinking no, but rather a victim of sorts, my good man. If she is truly being pursued by someone, as she believed herself to be when I discovered her, then we should have the whole story before any authorities are contacted. I shall claim temporary responsiblity for her, Mr. Babcock. 'Tis never a good idea to jump to conclusions before you know the story." He spared the squire a slight grin. "Something I am sure you are quite aware of yourself, being an expert storyteller."

"Indeed, m'lord!" agreed Mr. Babcock, with flushed cheeks.

"So she might truly be a princess, after all!" whispered Marvel-Anne at the doorway to her siblings. "Perhaps she escaped from an evil lord with an awful goatee because 'e wanted to marry 'er, but she is really in love with a prince!"

"So why didn' the prince rescue 'er?" Poppy asked, feeling cheated out of a good story somehow.

"Maybe 'e did! Maybe it is the duke!"

"The duke is a duke," said Poppy, thinking Marvel-Anne a nitwit. " 'e cannot be a prince and a duke at the same time."

"Yes 'e can! 'Tis possible!"

" 'Tis not!"

" 'Tis!"

Mrs. Babcock scurried over to them, shaking her finger scoldingly. "Now you four just make yourselves scarce this instant! The young miss- whoever she is- needs looking after, and the duke has entrusted us with her care. Ye don' want to disappoint 'im, do ye?"

"No, Mama," all four children sang obediently.

"Good. Now shoo for a while." She closed the door as soon as they were out of the way of it, then went back to Felicity, who's head rolled back and forth on the pillow as she moaned her agony to three curious strangers. Mrs. Babcock sat back down beside her, checked her wrist-wrappings for bleeding, then patted the girl's warm face with a cool damp cloth. "There, there, now, Miss. You'll be good as new before ye know it. Just you sleep now."

"Ben!" sobbed Felicity deliriously. "Ben, why did you leave me there?"

Mrs. Babcock looked up at the duke, mystified. " 'Oo's Ben?"

"I have no idea, Madame," Lord Covington replied, just as stumped. "But when she comes 'round, we'll find out. Just help her get over this...powder inflection, in the mean time."

"She's a right skinny lil' thing, isnt she," commented the squire's wife sadly. "Well! I'll just have to fill 'er up with some Babcock-family cookin' an' I'll wager she'll be lookin' like a bloomin' rose in a week's time!"

"Or she will just be lookin' full," said Squire Babcock, very much aware of how fast his wife's cooking could make a belly turn to a pumpkin.

"Oh shush, husband! You're as bad as the children!"

The duke smiled absently. He missed being married, missed his wife terribly. Evangeline would not want to see him so sad all of the time, he knew. But every time he thought about re-emerging into society, his heart just couldn't agree to it. Eve had been the center of his life, the sparkle of every ball they attended, the light of every event they attended. How could he find enjoyment at a festive gathering if he was not by her side?

He looked down at the mysterious red-head flinching within her disturbed sleep. You have sent quite an enigma unto me, my darling Eve. Now what manner of sign shall I take her as?

Author's Note: Would the Felicity we know and love from the books and/or movie ever consider taking her own life? Hell, no.

So before I get any bawling out over it, remember she IS experiencing drug-withdrawals and so she's not in her right mind. The use of opiate-based powders, ground-up tree-bark, herbs and so-called 'remedies' were abused just as much back then as they are now. Do you know what one of the 'cures' for diahrrea was? Sticking a chicken egg up one's rectum. Of course a chicken egg wasn't nearly as big back then as it is now (it took nearly 30 to make a cake) but the thought of sticking something where the sun don't shine is still disgusting. That just goes to show you that people tried anything and everything back then. That is how you learned whether something was useful or not: If you ingested it and got better, good for you. If you ingested it and got horribly sick but still lived, then you knew not to put it in your mouth ever again. If you ingested it and it killed you, then you'd be cured of ALL your ailments permanently.

Point is, the use of mind-altering powders, tinctures, drinks and herbs of all sorts of exotic and toxic blends were administered routinely. Especially by quacks. Opium was quickly gaining popularity about that time. I could get onto the subject of opium-parties, but I won't. I'm sleepy and I want to go to bed. Just know that Felicity is/was suffering withdrawals, and she normally wouldn't have, but I made her. That's one of the beauties of fanfic: you can create dramatic suffering where there ordinarily wouldn't be any. Can any of you readers honestly say you've never heard of a long-suffering heroine?

I didn't think so. And BTW: 'Unguin' is pronounced like 'onion' with the 'g' as in 'get'.