Edmund's heart pounded in time with the beat of his horse's hooves as they thundered down the road towards Alverton Hall. One hand grasped firmly at his stallion's reins; the other was wrapped around Mary's limp shoulder, clutching her tight to his chest to prevent her from swaying with the motion of the horse's lithe, powerful body.

He despised how helpless and fragile she looked; it was not a state he was accustomed to seeing her in, and it was his doing only which had caused her this pain. She would surely be catching a chill in her thin cotton gown, but Edmund was fearful of placing his overcoat about her shoulders, for it was still slightly damp from the torrential rain he had ridden through earlier that afternoon.

How could he call himself a chivalrous gentleman, when he had neglected the person he cared for more than any other in the world?

Time and again, Edmund returned to the moment he had turned his back on Mary beside the fountain at Alverton Hall, storming off to the stables before riding out into the pouring rain. Each time he replayed the scene in his mind, so grew his dismay and vexation with himself for ever having left her in such a way. 

She had infuriated him beyond belief; to such an extent that he knew he had to take his leave as soon as possible, for fear of truly losing his temper. How could she have believed him to be so despicable? Had all the time they had spent becoming acquainted over the festive period truly given her so little insight into his character?

Edmund had felt betrayed, certainly – he was indeed vexed with Mary for deceiving him for such a length of time. He was vexed, however, not because he no longer cared for her now that he knew her true station in life; but rather, because he cared too much.

Although it had long been hoped that he and Lady Helena would marry, Edmund had never truly imagined what it would be like to be her husband. With Mary, however, his mind had begun to stray towards the rather terrifying prospect of asking her to become his wife. He had never met someone as full of life as Mary, nor – he had thought – someone so genuine. Both were qualities Edmund found very endearing, bringing him to the conclusion that he would, indeed, ask for Mary's hand in marriage upon her return to Alverton.

Upon discovering Mary to be a maid, Edmund had watched in horror as all his dreams shattered around him. Mary's true identity changed nothing in the way he viewed her – if anything, it made him admire her all the more for her resilience and strength – but society would not view it the same way. If he and Mary were to marry, society would eschew them with a firm hand. Edmund would no doubt lose his title and any future inheritance, leaving him with no funds with which to provide for Mary and their future children. And what sort of husband would that make him?

These tortured thoughts had swirled violently around Edmund's head as he pounded across the sodden ground, almost blinded by the torrential downpour which the frequent gusts of wind whipped across his face. His anger carried him most of the way to Chester – but just as he reached the outskirts of the city, Edmund had found his heart softening.

Mary had masqueraded as her mistress not for any selfish reason, he realised – it had been an entirely unselfish move to protect the true Miss Thorpe. Now that reality had been given an opportunity to sink in, Edmund found himself experiencing a great deal of admiration for Mary and her willingness to navigate the unspoken rules and etiquette of polite society, despite having never been bred for it.

As his anger with Mary subsided, Edmund's anger with society had only increased. Who were the gentlemen and ladies of English society to dictate to whom his heart should belong? And what knew they of love? The only marriages they knew how to form were those of monetary advantage and social gain. This was what marriage to Lady Helena would have brought; but Lady Helena had showed Edmund that it need not be this way.

It was at this moment Edmund had realised the truth of his situation: that he was in far too deep to hope of any way out. His love for Mary had surpassed anything he had imagined himself capable of feeling. He could never marry another; not now, after knowing her. Although it was highly unlikely a union could ever take place between them, Edmund decided this did not change his views. If he could not have Mary, he would not marry at all.

With this decided in his mind, Edmund had suddenly felt very foolish for storming off in such a manner. He found himself overcome with the need to apologise to Mary; to make it known to her that although it was virtually impossible for them to have a future together, his heart would belong to her for the rest of his days.

And so, Edmund had leapt back on his poor, exhausted horse, wheeling around and charging back along the road leading to Alverton Hall.

Only to find that he was too late.

No! thought Edmund savagely, gritting his teeth in determination as the vast building of Alverton Hall came into view up ahead. He refused to give up hope; not now, after realising what a fool he had been. Mary was a such a strong person – stronger than any he knew – he refused to believe she would leave him now, before he had the chance to confess his love for her.

Watching helplessly as the remaining colour drained from her limp, lifeless form, Edmund began to wonder if his hopes were futile. The gash upon Mary's head was still bleeding freely, despite Edmund's desperate attempts to stem the flow. He was no doctor; what knew he of the correct way to treat such a wound? The best he could do for her was to return her to Alverton Hall as soon as possible, so that Lord Alverton's doctor might be called.

Edmund dismounted carefully upon pulling up outside, before carrying Mary into the entrance hall without bothering to lead his horse to the stables.

There was an eerie sort of quiet in the vast, cool room – as if the house was waiting with bated breath for something to happen. The silence was soon broken, however, by the appearance of a pair of figures on the landing above, both storming down the staircase to meet Edmund with mutinous expressions.

"Where is she?" bellowed Mr Godwin, his usually good-natured expression replaced by one which gave Edmund the notion that he would take great pleasure in challenging him to a duel there and then.

"Who?" replied Edmund blearily, focus entirely consumed by the woman in his arms.

"My betrothed!" growled Mr Godwin. "Where is Helena?"

"I – she will follow along shortly, I am certain of it," stuttered Edmund. "She is conveying the child home; I had not the room atop my horse, and the phaeton is no longer fit for use."

"You abandoned my son beside the road?" screeched Miss Thorpe, joining Mr Godwin in his attack.

"Is she harmed?" cried Mr Godwin simultaneously.

Edmund shook his head impatiently, waving the pair aside.

"I have not the time for your questions at present," he snapped, edging past them and beginning up the staircase. "Mary is in grave danger, and I shall not rest until I see her treated for her injuries."

"You are in luck," called Mr Godwin after him, "for Lord Alverton's doctor has not yet taken his leave. He has been treating Lord Alverton, who was struck by Mr Roach before that man proceeded to snatch Miss Thorpe's child, prompting Lady Helena and Mary to make after him."

Edmund's eyes widened in horror as Mr Godwin's words clicked into place.

The abandoned phaeton; the child; it all made sense! Lady Helena and Mary had been chasing Mr Roach down in an attempt to recover the stolen child!

With still greater admiration for Mary's bravery, Edmund looked fondly down at the woman he loved.

But Mary would not be anybody's to love, unless Edmund sought out the doctor immediately.

Ignoring Mr Godwin and Miss Thorpe's persistent chatter, Edmund took the stairs two at a time, until he reached the landing where Lord Alverton's chambers were.

"Doctor!" he called, voice muffled by the thick, luxurious carpet running the entire length of the corridor. "I have urgent need of a doctor!"

A door to Edmund's left opened suddenly, revealing a small, balding man of around forty, with rather mismatched grey eyes due to the monocle he was wearing.

"Yes?" he said briskly, before noticing the wound on Mary's head.

"Good Lord!" exclaimed the doctor, pressing the monocle to his eye as if he could not quite believe it. "Lead me to her chambers immediately!"

Without thinking, Edmund blindly stumbled along the corridor, pushing open the door to Mary's old guest chambers with his hip. Trying to stem the flow of memories relating to the time when Edmund believed her to be Miss Thorpe, he laid her gently down on the bed, wincing as the soft, white pillow became instantly tainted red with blood. It was too bright; brighter even than the red of her fluttering eyelashes or mass of tangled curls.

He had never had the chance to tell her just how beautiful she was – and now, he might never have the opportunity.

"Please save her," begged Edmund, voice little more than a whisper. "I cannot lose her; not now."

"Leave it to me," replied the doctor briskly, shepherding Edmund back towards the doorway. "I shall do the very best I can."

That small glimpse of Mary's ghostly form upon the bed was the last Edmund saw of her before the door was closed firmly in his face.

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A/N: How did you like reading a chapter from Sir Edmund's point of view? I'd love to know what you think! If ever we had any doubt, here is confirmation of how much he cares for Mary - let's just hope he arrived in time...

Exciting news, guys - A Lady's Fate is now a Wattpad featured story! I'm so thrilled, and I really want to thank you all for reading and supporting this story, because it is thanks to *you* that I have been so enthusiastic to write about Helena and Mary's adventures <3

As ever, please vote and comment if you enjoyed :)