The sight at the bottom of the stairs was horrific. Two bodies—both covered in blood—lay with their arms and legs flung out widely. Matthew knelt over Mary's broken form, alternately kissing her pale lips and trying desperately, using his coat, to stop the flow of blood from the two holes caused by the single bullet's entering and leaving her body. Richard, with a bloody cavity in his forehead thanks to Matthew's skill with the revolver, lay still—neck broken, eyes open yet unseeing, Mary's hair still gripped in his left hand.
Mary was breathing, this Matthew knew, but he didn't know the extent of her injuries outside of the obvious one. He tried to clear his head. Moving her was not an option, but how was he to get help? Wait! Surely, Richard had installed a telephone somewhere on the premises! He raced to the doorway of what he hoped was a sitting room, where, thankfully, he found one. He called the Abbey, roaring at Carson, "Mary! At Haxby! Call Clarkson! Hurry!" and then threw the receiver down to run back to Mary.
"My darling? Please. Wake up. I'm here. You're safe. Please don't leave me, my darling girl. My love. Please." He wept over her unresponsive body, looking desperately for some sign of consciousness. She was so pale and lifeless. What horrors had Richard put her through? Judging from her battered face and maimed neck, he had attacked her with tremendous fury. She and Matthew had been through so much together; surely she would not be taken from him now? He crouched beside her, untangling her hair from Richard's lifeless hand, and spoke to her tenderly, "You know, my darling, we will be married in seven weeks. You will be the most beautiful bride, and I'll be so proud to be your husband. And our children…. I love you…I love you so." At a loss at what else to do before help arrived, it suddenly occurred to Matthew that water and wet cloths might help revive her, so he raced upstairs and looked for a bath, finding one just off the main staircase. Clambering back downstairs with several wet towels, he pressed one gently to each of the wounds in her side and wiped Mary's battered face with another to remove the dried blood, again whispering comforting words to her motionless form.
Suddenly, he heard his mother's cry, "Matthew!" and looked up to see her and Anna racing toward him through the open door. Immediately following were Dr. Clarkson and Robert with Cora and Edith trailing behind. They all were stunned to see the scene before them—Cora, Edith, and Anna gasping at the sight of Mary's pale, broken body, Matthew's clothing bloodstained from his efforts to revive her. Richard, obviously, was dead, but what of Mary? Isobel moved immediately to Dr. Clarkson's side to help him and to comfort her son as Cora and Edith clutched each other in horror. Anna stood apart from the group, her mind reeling, sickened by the image of her mistress, no! her friend, lying motionless on the floor. Once reality set in, the group was further shocked by the space's décor. The garish tapestries and red walls seemed to echo the scene at the base of the stairs. Speechless, they gaped at the strange aberrations, sensing that Sir Richard had a side to him they never suspected.
"Dear God. What went on here?" demanded Robert. As Matthew tried to explain what he knew, Dr. Clarkson knelt down beside Mary and began his examination.
"The bullet has gone completely through her body, and she's lost a lot of blood." He looked at Matthew's stricken face. "Thank God you knew to put a compress on the wounds, or she would have bled to death before I got here. You saved Lady Mary's life, young man." Matthew leaned over, his hands on his knees, and tried to catch his breath. Dr. Clarkson continued, "Judging from the contusion on the back of her head, she no doubt has a concussion from the fall down the stairs, and it looks as if her shoulder and arm are broken. I can't say more at this point, but we need to get her to hospital so I can examine her more thoroughly. We are dealing with significant trauma here."
For four days Matthew sat vigil at Mary's hospital bedside, refusing to leave her. Her pallor and comatose state broke his heart. He ministered to her every need while using tender words and caresses to plead with her to come back to him. He read stories and poetry to her until he was hoarse, brought in a gramophone to play soothing music, wrote love letters to her and then read them aloud, and changed her bandages and bathed her so gently that even the most experienced nurse was impressed with his tenderness. Most touching to those who observed him with her was his declaration of love delivered at the top of each hour: "My darling, I'm here with you. Rest well and know I'll love you through eternity. The best is yet to be." Each member of his family urged him to get some rest—that he couldn't help Mary if he collapsed from exhaustion—but he refused their entreaties, saying he would never forgive himself if he weren't with her when she awoke.
The damage to Mary's body was, indeed, grievous. Although the injuries to her face and neck were appalling enough, the severity of her other injuries astounded the hospital staff—a dislocated shoulder, a broken arm, a severely-bruised hip, broken ribs, a concussion, and multiple bruises and abrasions. It was obvious she had put up a terrific fight against a much stronger opponent. The gunshot wound alone might have been fatal had the bullet passed a couple of inches lower or higher. Dr. Clarkson was amazed Mary hadn't died from the combination of injuries, which he attributed to a miracle far beyond his capabilities.
At nine o'clock on the fourth night of his watch, Matthew leaned over to give Mary his hourly declaration of love and a gentle kiss. She stirred slightly and sighed. Matthew was afraid his eyes were deceiving him.
She was in so much pain. It hurt to breathe. Why on earth did she agree to attend the ball? She looked down at her red dress. She didn't remember choosing this particular frock. It weighed her down and forced her to move with such effort that she strained even to take a step. She certainly couldn't dance. And the music. It was a cacophony of rumbles and screeches—totally discordant. Figures swirled around her, causing her head to reel as she tried to focus. Suddenly, the figures disappeared, and she was alone in the cavernous ballroom. Someone behind her called her name, and she turned to see Matthew standing at the far end of the room. She tried to move toward him, but something—someone?—was holding her back. "Come to me, Mary," Matthew's deep, silken voice called to her. She opened her mouth but couldn't speak. Why had she swallowed cotton and feathers? Looking down at her feet, she saw that the bottom of her crimson gown was pooling around her feet and flowing over the floor. She suddenly found herself in Matthew's hold but was unable to raise her arms to follow his lead as the dance began. The pain in her shoulder was excruciating—in fact, her whole body seemed to be rebelling against her efforts to move. She looked up, intending to apologize and saw that Matthew's face had been replaced by Richard's. She tried to scream. He used a vise to grip her side and began whirling her around the dance floor until they both dropped, breathless, over the edge of a cliff. The ground rushed up to meet her.
"My darling? Mary, can you hear me?" He knew better than to jostle her, so he placed his hand on her cheek and rubbed her chin gently with his thumb.
Mary's eyelids fluttered, and she opened her eyes.