Chapter 31
Sweat beaded on Thalia’s brow as she fanned herself furiously, her heart beating wildly in her chest, adding jolting beats that she was certain should not have been there.
Her hands were clammy as she picked up her teacup and sipped, hoping it might be the refreshment she needed to help soothe her body.
If anything, it made her stomach lurch more violently. Ordinarily, she loved mint tea, but this was… too much, the flavor too intense.
“Are you well? You look very pale, dearest Thalia,” Frances said with a deep frown of concern.
Thalia tried to take a deep breath, but it was as if her lungs were filled with wool. “I think it is… the heat in here. Are you warm? I… feel so very warm.”
“Shall I ask the servants to put out the fire?” Frances asked, rising.
Shaking her head, Thalia pushed off from the settee and paused for a moment as the world wobbled around her. Her legs were as heavy as lead, her heart pounding so hard now that she could feel it in her skull, hear it in her ears.
“I just… need some… fresh air,” she wheezed, using the last strength she possessed to shuffle toward the garden doors.
Her clammy hands fumbled with the latch, and as it lifted, she barged her shoulder against the door.
Cool, fresh air swept in like a mother’s caress, anxiously touching the feverish heat of her face.
She tried to drink down mouthfuls of that sweet air, but her lungs would not cooperate, each breath shallow and painful.
“Frances, I do… not think I am well,” she croaked. “I think I need… a phys—”
Her legs gave way, her head swimming as she collapsed right there on the threshold between the stuffy drawing room and the beauty of the outside world. Through blurred eyes, she was briefly aware of the greenery and the sound of birds tweeting, before there was nothing at all.
Henry and Walter rode side-by-side, charging along the country roads between Weverton and Holdridge as if they were being chased by the devil Himself. Yet, the devil was ahead of them, doing who knew what to Henry’s beloved wife.
He doubted he had ever ridden so ferociously before, his heart matching the pounding drum of the hoofbeats against the road. Even so, it was not nearly fast enough. All he could do was keep going and hope that he was somehow mistaken.
If you have harmed my wife, James, I shall not hesitate; I shall kill you. I do not care what it costs me.
That thought repeated over and over in his head, all the way to the gates of Holdridge Court.
However, he slowed long before he reached the manor, bringing his horse to a halt as he noticed movement at the garden doors of the drawing room. A swarm of servants, all staring down at something.
Walter slowed with him. “I will look for James. I see no carriage, and we passed none, but they cannot have gone far.”
“Thank you,” Henry managed to rasp, as he urged his horse into a lope, leaping down as he came to the gathering of servants.
Startled gasps and teary eyes greeted him, the group parting to allow him to see what they were staring at. Baxter kneeled in the middle of them with Thalia in his arms, tears running down his ordinarily stoic face. Mrs. Fisher was weeping, Rowena held against her, shoulders shaking with grief.
“I did not want to move her, Your Grace,” Baxter choked.
Henry could not move, his eyes fixed on his wife’s pale face, her bloodless lips, the strangeness of her body, so limp and lifeless.
“What happened?” he growled, his heart cracking.
“Frances raised the alarm. She came running out, saying that Her Grace had collapsed,” Mrs. Fisher mumbled in reply. “She took the carriage to fetch a physician at once.”
Baxter nodded. “I have tried to rouse her, but it is no good. Her pulse is very weak, and she is breathing, but not much. I fear the physician will arrive too late.”
If one has been sent for at all.
“Baxter, ride to the village,” Henry commanded, as he crouched down to take his wife from the butler’s arms. “Fetch Mr. Lichfield here at once.”
“Mr. Lichfield?” Baxter smeared the tears from his cheeks.
Henry nodded. “He is closest. He used to be a physician. I cannot wait for someone else to arrive. Take my horse.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” Recovering quickly, Baxter ran for the waiting gelding, heaved himself into the saddle and was off down the driveway in an instant, kicking up a cloud of dust.
Thalia felt so heavy in Henry’s arms as he cradled her close, his hand supporting her head to keep it from lolling.
For a second or two, he just held her, uncertain of what to do next.
Scared to his core. He was no physician, he did not know what was wrong with her; he had never felt more helpless in his entire life.
I am going to lose her. The last thing she will ever think of me is that I did not want to stay, when I want nothing more.
Fighting tears, Henry carried his wife into the drawing room and lay her down upon the settee.
There, his gaze was drawn to the tea tray that rested on the low table: one teapot, a little jug of milk, a bowl of sugar, two slices of lemon, but only one teacup. Yet, there on the edge of the table, closest to him, he spotted a faint ring, recently made. A teacup was missing.
“Charcoal,” he said suddenly, remembering something he had read once in his youth. “Bring charcoal, make it into a powder. I need water, too. Water and blankets and… cushions for her head.”
He had no idea if it was poison that had put his wife in this dire condition, but he had to do something. The more he could do before the physician arrived, the better. At the very least, it would distract him enough that he would not crumble entirely.
“You heard him!” Mrs. Fisher barked, as the servants scattered, running off to fetch what he had requested.
The charcoal and water were necessary, the rest was just a means of evacuating the room. He did not want to be surrounded by so many people, not when there were private things he needed to say to his wife while there was still a chance that she might hear him.
“You should wake up, darling,” he said, kneeling at her side, hesitantly touching her pale face. “I do no want to continue without you.”
He listened to the awful rattle of her breaths, so small and superficial that he doubted it would suffice to keep her alive.
“You asked me if I wanted to stay,” he murmured. “I want to. I have always wanted to. I never wish to be parted from you again so, please, my love, do not leave.”
Her eyelids flickered, but he knew it was just the movement of her eyes beneath them. Whatever had befallen her, he feared that her luck had run out. For the first time in thirty years, he was truly, paralyzingly terrified.
“I love you, Thalia,” he whispered, as he rested his head against her chest, listening to the erratic, feeble beat of her heart. “I love you. Do not leave. Please, do not leave.”
He was so overcome with sorrow that he did not hear the patter of hurried footfalls until the drawing room door burst open, and the physician rushed inside. Not the man that Henry had sent Baxter for, but Dr. Farnaby.
So, Frances did send for a physician? Henry stared at the man as if he could not quite believe it. And yet, Frances was not there with the physician, as a truly concerned friend would be. She was nowhere to be seen.
“Your Grace,” the physician said gently, “if I may?”
It took all the strength that Henry had left to separate from Thalia, pulling himself up to his feet and stepping aside to let Dr. Farnaby help.
“Poison,” Henry said quietly.
“Pardon?” Dr. Farnaby opened up his medicine bag.
Henry nodded to his wife. “I think it was poison.” He paused, a thought gathering weight in his head. “And I do not think this is the first time.”
Indeed, running through the events of the last ‘accident’, one factor repeated: Thalia had enjoyed tea with Frances then, too.
Yes, there had been the evening tea that Baxter had made for Thalia, but the butler prepared that himself and could confirm it had not been tampered with.
But what if the poison had already been in her body before she retired for the night?
What if she had decided not to go to sleep, but to go to the tower to see Henry, to speak about motherhood, when the poison had finally taken hold?
A small dose would work that way. A delayed response so that Frances would be far from the manor before it did its deadly work.
And if someone suspected poison, Baxter would be implicated instead.
I will kill them both…
The compulsion to hunt his cousins down scorched his veins, making him pace the room in restless fury, but he would not leave to deliver justice until he knew his wife’s fate. He could not leave her now.
Indeed, all he could do was pray and hope, and trust that it was not too late.