Читать книгу My Lord Protector - Deborah Hale, Deborah Hale - Страница 13

Chapter Six

The return of the servants had certain benefits, Julianna discovered. It was pleasant to sleep late the next morning, without the prospect of dressing in the chilly air. She had not been awake long when a girl came to tend the fires. Gwenyth and her aunt would be spending a few more days in Chatham, visiting relatives of the late Mr. Davies. Julianna longed to see Gwenyth again and exchange the news of their respective holidays. From Hetty, who brought her breakfast, she learned that Mr. Brock had returned bright and early. She wondered how much of her recent felicity had been due to the absence of the lowering steward.

After the excitement and activity of Christmas, St. Stephen’s Day proved decidedly dreary. Julianna found herself unaccountably hungry for Sir Edmund’s company, though she doubted they could recapture the easy camaraderie of the past several days. There was no sign of him at luncheon. A search of the library yielded nothing more promising than a well-worn copy of Pilgrim’s Progress. Julianna borrowed it for want of better diversion. She assumed Sir Edmund must be keeping to his rooms, perhaps nursing the chill he had taken yesterday. Mr. Brock was very much in evidence, supervising the cleanup and organizing an abbreviated staff. Late in the afternoon, desperate for any kind of human society, Julianna tried to engage him in conversation.

“You had a pleasant Christmas, I trust, Mr. Brock.”

Brock continued to put the house in order while delivering an offhand reply. “Aye, ma’am. Pleasant enough.”

“You stayed in London?”

“Rotherhithe, ma’am,” came Brock’s short reply, speaking of an area on the south bank of the Thames.

“With friends or family?” Julianna persisted.

The steward’s eyes narrowed beneath his ferocious brows, but his answer remained civil. “With my brother and his family, ma‘am. Will that be everything, ma’am?”

Julianna found herself enjoying the show of consternation Mr. Brock took few pains to hide. Some streak of perversity kept her from acknowledging his question.

“I expect you would like to hear how Sir Edmund and I fared in your absence.” She rushed on before he could refuse. “We fared admirably, I think, though I would not care to do without our staff, on a continuing basis. Did Sir Edmund tell you we attended the theater and a charity concert? The music was superb. Yesterday we hosted the carolers, and even did a little musical turn of our own. I had no idea my husband possessed such a fine singing voice. Does it not sound a thoroughly enjoyable program?” she concluded breathlessly.

His nostrils flared, and for an instant Julianna feared he meant to pick her up and administer a sound shaking. The intent blazed in his face. Brock’s voice was barely under control as he growled, “It sounds a thoroughly exhausting program for one of Sir Edmund’s weak constitution. Little wonder he has taken to his bed, poor man. If I had been here—”

She would not stand a lecture from this man, as if any ailment of Sir Edmund’s might be her fault. “Surely your master is well past years of discretion, Mr. Brock, and capable of choosing his own activities.”

The steward turned on his heel and stalked off. He had done so, Julianna suspected, to forestall doing her an injury. Well, much as he might have wanted to shake her, she wanted equally to shake him. In spite of her pert reply, his barb had struck home. She had known of Sir Edmund’s poor health, noted his slight appetite and how easily he tired. Perhaps she should have gone away for a few days and given him a chance to rest, instead of enduring a succession of late nights and improvised meals. What a fine way to repay all his kindness! For what felt like the hundredth time that day, Julianna opened her locket for a glimpse of Crispin’s reassuring smile.

“Alice!”

Julianna jolted awake, her stomach in knots, her breath shallow and rapid. A dream. She sank back into her pillows, laughing at her own foolishness. She had been dreaming the strangest dream about Crispin in a Greek toga and herself in a classical chiton, saying their goodbyes in the gardens at Vauxhall. He had professed his love for her, then called her by the name Alice. When she had protested that her name was not Alice, but Julianna, he had begun to shake her and demand to know what she had done with Alice.

“Alice...”

The faint, distant cry made Julianna gasp and clutch the bedclothes before her, as she had clutched the chiton in her dream. Was she dreaming still? Then, as her waking mind began to function, she realized the voice intruding upon her dreams could have only one source—Sir Edmund. Grasping the bell at her bedside, she rang it vigorously. Gwenyth soon came running to answer her summons. The girl shivered in her wrap and nightcap but looked far too alert to have been recently woken.

“Gwenyth, what is going on?” Julianna demanded. “Is that Sir Edmund I hear?”

“Oh yes, ma’am. The master’s ever so ill.” Gwenyth rattled off her tale in a nervous staccato burst. “Clean mad with the fever, Auntie says. Did Mr. Brock not tell you? It’s that sickness he caught years ago in the tropics. He takes a spell of it every few years. He was ill the first winter I came here, see, and he almost died that time. Auntie says she’s never seen him worse than this. He’s been calling for his sister off and on for an hour now. Mr. Brock is at his wits’ end to quiet him.”

Julianna felt a sickening pang of self-reproach. “Can nothing be done?”

Gwenyth’s shoulders rose in a shrug, her lips pursed. “I dunno, ma’am. Not a doctor, am I? Mr. Brock’s sent John for the barber-surgeon. Perhaps he can—”

“No!”

Gwenyth’s words galvanized Julianna and brought forth a flood of vivid, painful memories. It had been dark and cold and late—just like this—on the night years ago when Winnie had shaken her from a sound sleep. Myfanwy Penallen was dying and wanted her little granddaughter with her at the end. Julianna would never forget her grandmother’s blanched skin, sunken eyes and wasted body. The red-gold hair about which she had once been so vain dulled to a ruddy ash, her strength and spirit bled and purged away—almost. A dash of pepper spiced her last words, flung at Alistair Ramsay over his daughter’s head.

“I’d not have died, if you hadn’t tried to cure me!”

That final, venomous accusation hung in the air after the old lady’s heart and breath had stilled and Winnie had taken Julianna back to her own bed. It had shaken Alistair Ramsay. No barber-surgeon ever crossed his threshold after that night. Over the years he had cultivated patronage for a rising young cadre of scientific physicians. Julianna was equally determined to allow no barber-surgeon in her house.

“Gwenyth, is there an old gown of Mrs. Bayard’s about?” she asked, a plan beginning to take shape in her mind.

“Oh yes, milady,” the girl replied, a query in her voice. “These used to be Mrs. Bayard’s rooms, see? Before you came, they were just as she left them. When we rearranged it all for you, her belongings just got moved across the hall, and—”

“Good.” Julianna had heard all she needed to hear. “Go fetch me one of her gowns, and be quick about it.”

As Gwenyth departed on her errand, Julianna took a moment to collect her wits. Feeling responsible for Sir Edmund’s condition, she resolved to remedy the situation in any way possible. From what Gwenyth had told her, the most urgent tasks would be to calm Sir Edmund and to keep the barber-surgeon at bay. Any action on her part would likely call down the wrath of the formidable Mr. Brock. By the time Gwenyth returned, Julianna was trying to steel herself for the confrontation.

“I hope this will do, ma’am. There are others, but I took the first that came to hand.”

Julianna fanned her nose against the camphoric fumes of Mrs. Davies’s mothproofing preparation. “This will have to serve. Tomorrow, make sure to have the rest aired, in case I need them. Help brush my hair up under this cap. Now, back to bed, Gwenyth. I may need your help tomorrow, so you must get your rest.”

As she made her way down the dark gallery, Julianna’s heart raced. Her palms felt cold and damp. She would sooner face down a great wild beast than her husband’s ferocious steward. Sir Edmund’s cries grew weaker, but no less agitated, as she approached his apartment. Hearing footsteps behind her, she spun around to find a young footman escorting a capped and cloaked stranger. Julianna recognized the satchel he carried.

Taking a deep breath, she thrust out her hand. “Doctor?”

The gentleman set down his case, doffed his hat and bowed over her hand. “Jonas Hanley, ma’am. I was summoned to attend Sir Edmund Fitzhugh. I understand his condition is very grave.”

A poor choice of words, Julianna reflected. “I am Lady Fitzhugh, Mr. Hanley. I regret we have summoned you out at so late an hour on a cold night. I must apologize for the misunderstanding. My husband will not require your services, after all.”

The surgeon opened his mouth to voice his obvious annoyance, but Julianna managed to forestall his tirade.

“Of course, we will recompense you handsomely for your trouble. John, show Mr. Hanley to the drawing room and poor him a cup of port to warm his journey home.”

“But, milady, Mr. Breck’ll...”

“Leave Mr. Brock to me, John.” Julianna strove to interject the proper note of matronly authority. “You have my orders.”

The men turned back, the surgeon huffing and clucking. Julianna overheard the young footman muttering excuses for the whims of his employers. She watched with relief as they retreated down the hallway. She knew better than to hope her next encounter would resolve itself so smoothly. Bracing her shoulders and muttering a prayer under her breath, she pushed open Sir Edmund’s door.

The light in the room was dim, fortunately. Sir Edmund half sat, half reclined upon his high bed, asking again and again for Alice. Mordecai Brock leaned over his master, vainly trying to calm the sick man and induce him to lie still. At the sound of the door, Brock looked over his shoulder.

“Doctor, at last...” He spied Julianna. His face, at first a mask of bewilderment, clouded with rage as he recognized her. “Get out of here, now!” His blazing eyes declared that he would rend her limb from limb. However, the steward’s body could not completely shield his master from the apparition at the door.

“Alice, you have come at last!” Sir Edmund collapsed back onto his pillows.

“Yes, Edmund, I am here.” Julianna moved toward the bed. Though she addressed her words to the patient, she kept her eyes locked on Mordecai Brock, daring him to stop her.

Sweat beaded Sir Edmund’s brow and his eyes were eerily vacant. Julianna put her hand to his fiery forehead.

“Lie still, my dear. Alice is here. You must sleep, while I sit with you and bathe your head.” Such words would a loving mother croon to a sick child. They had their desired effect.

“Yes, Alice, will try to rest.” Sir Edmund nodded with childlike contrition. “I feel so strange. I am glad you have come. I called and called for you.”

“Shh, you must not talk now, Edmund. Lie back and close your eyes. Mr. Brock, bring me a cloth and a basin of tepid water. And see that no one disturbs us, on any account.”

“May I speak to you in private, ma’am?” The steward pitched his voice low, so as not to rouse Sir Edmund, but Julianna could see a vein throbbing at one temple of his rage-mottled face.

“One moment, Mr. Brock.” She turned back to the bed. “Now, Edmund, I must step outside for an instant. I know you feel hot and unwell, but try to rest quietly.”

Sir Edmund raised her hand to a cheek rough with several days’ growth of whiskers. By contrast, his words were those of a plaintive little boy. “I will do as you say, Alice. Only, come back very soon.”

Once they were alone in the gallery, with a closed door separating them from Sir Edmund, Mordecai Brock erupted in a muted explosion of fury.

“What do you think you are playing at, jade? Have you not done damage enough, cavorting around London last week, getting him run down and prey to this? I have my hands full with him and I will not put up with your playacting and upsetting him further. Now get back to bed, before I pick you up and dump you there!”

Mordecai Brock was shorter in stature than Sir Edmund. By balancing high on her toes, Julianna could look him directly in the eye, her face within inches of his.

“Do that and it will be your last act as steward of this house.” Julianna strove to keep her voice firm, but dispassionate. She suspected he might strike her if she inflamed his temper further. If it happened, she would have no choice but to dismiss him. That was not her aim.

Her words must have left the steward momentarily speechless, for she was able to continue in a more conciliatory vein. “I will excuse your outburst, Mr. Brock, considering how distraught you are over my husband’s illness. But, mark me, I will not show such clemency again. In the first place, not that it is any of your business, our two Christmas outings were entirely Sir Edmund’s idea. Had you told me of the possible danger to my husband’s health, I would certainly have refused his invitations and contrived to keep him at home. Secondly, my ‘playacting’ seems to have done far more good than harm. Even I can see my husband needs to relax and rest. Believe it or not, I desire Sir Edmund’s recovery as much as you do. I can best accomplish that with your aid, but if need be, I will manage on my own. You have a choice, Mr. Brock, so consider well. Give me the assistance I need and the respect I deserve as mistress of this house or leave now and hinder me no more.”

To Julianna, the silence that followed her audacious little speech stretched on interminably. Her legs were beginning to shake and her breath was coming too quickly. Still, she dared not flinch from Mordecai Brock’s testing gaze.

At last he declared, “I will stay. Not on account of your daft threats but because you bear watching, my girl.”

“A wise choice, Mr. Brock.” Her voice almost broke. Drawing a deep breath, she added, with more confidence than she felt, “Your motives are nothing to me, for I can stand the scrutiny.”

Rather than meeting her eye, Brock stared at a point on her forehead. “Your orders, madam?”

She felt on firmer ground now. “Have one of the girls bring the water for drinking and cooling cloths. I have already sent the barber-surgeon away.”

“You have done what?” the steward thundered.

“Lower your voice, Mr. Brock, and remember your decision. I will not have those carrion craw in my house. Nor will I let Sir Edmund die of their so-called cures. They would let blood for a case of hiccups! At first light, you must go to Westminster Hospital on Chapel Street and ask for Jonathan Cail. On the way back, give him as much information as you can about this fever of Sir Edmund’s. That will do for now.”

Brock stalked off down the hall. When he had disappeared from sight, Julianna allowed herself to lean against the wall and let her trembling legs buckle beneath her. Her anger and indignation were spent. Though she felt a slight flush of triumph, tears sprang to her eyes. She scolded herself for such weakness. Well begun is half done, Winnie had always said. In spite of her promising beginning, Julianna knew she still had far to go. In the next room lay a feverish man who believed himself a young boy and she his long-dead sister, come back to nurse him.

When she returned to his bedside, she found Sir Edmund distressed anew.

“Please don’t go away again, Alice,” he begged. “My head hurts so. The light makes it hurt.”

Julianna snuffed the candle and returned to sit by the bed. Where was the girl with the water she had ordered?

“There now, is that better?” She reached for his hand in the darkness.

Sir Edmund clung to her fingers. “My head still hurts, and I feel so hot.” His voice sounded petulant.

“Lovely cool water will be coming soon. Is there anything else you would like in the meantime?”

“Sing me a song. I like to hear you sing, Alice. Please?”

“What shall I sing?”

“You know. ‘The Scarborough Fair.’ That is my favorite.” He sounded indignant that she had not remembered.

“Of course. How could I forget? ‘Go you now to Scarborough Fair? Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme...’”

Gently, hardly above a whisper, Julianna sang the old tune and every other quiet, soothing melody she could think of—airs and ballads, hymns and nursery rhymes. Between songs, she murmured the kind of endearments she could recall from her own childhood sickbed. When the water came, she bathed his fevered forehead, crooning all the while.

The late winter sun had risen when Julianna noticed Sir Edmund’s breathing becoming slower and more even. His head felt cooler. The fever broken, he slept.

Julianna’s own eyes were beginning to droop when Gwenyth appeared. “Mr. Brock has brought the doctor, ma’am. He would speak with you outside. I can sit with the master, if you like.”

“Very well, Gwenyth. Call me right away if he wakes.”

In the corridor, Julianna found Brock with Jonathan Cail.

“Dear Dr. Cail! Thank you so much for coming.”

The doctor took her hand. “Why, Miss Ramsay, what a lady you have become since last we met. Though you do look like you just stepped out of an old painting.”

“Excuse me? Oh, the dress!” Julianna gave a weary chuckle. “My husband was delirious last night from the fever, and calling for his dead sister. I thought the masquerade might calm his mind, and so it did.”

“A wise idea. It is always best to indulge a delirious patient, if possible. Any agitation only works against the healing process.”

Julianna cast Mordecai Brock a look to say she had told him so. He refused to take notice.

“I am pleased to say we will not require your services after all. My husband’s fever has subsided at last. He is sleeping.”

“Then I will not disturb him for the present. If what your steward tells me is true, your husband is not yet out of danger. Is there someplace private, where we may speak at greater length?”

“Why certainly. You have not yet broken your fast, I think.” Julianna turned to the steward. “Mr. Brock, order breakfast for two. Then get yourself to bed. I know you have lost more than one night’s sleep since Christmas.”

“I believe I will sit with Sir Edmund until you return, ma’am,” he replied.

“No, Mr. Brock.” Julianna almost stamped her foot for emphasis. “If Sir Edmund’s illness continues, I will need you rested and well to assist me. Gwenyth is with him now and he is sleeping. You must do the same. Consider that an order.”

“Aye, ma’am.” He heaved his words in a great sigh. Julianna doubted Mr. Brock would have any trouble obeying her command.

As Julianna and the doctor awaited their breakfast in the dining room, she asked, “What did you mean about my husband not being out of danger? What is this awful fever?”

“Of course I have not yet examined the patient, but your manservant’s account of Sir Edmund’s medical history was very specific and informative. He would make a fine physician.”