Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“Ihave written Baron Spencer and informed him that we shall be arriving a day late to the hunting party,” Nicholas explained, entering Amelia’s bedchambers. “And should that brother of mine have remembered your invitation to dinner tonight, I will—”
Nicholas paused in the doorway.
He had not known the physician was still present, and he dithered abashedly at the doors in response.
The physician stood at Amelia’s bedside, measuring her heartbeat with a strange-looking contraption, while she sipped languidly from a cup of tea.
The man removed the tips of the instrument from his ears and hung it around his neck, turning to Nicholas, his mouth curled into a smile beneath his salt-and-pepper moustache.
That smile was relief more than he knew.
Since Amelia had fallen ill, Nicholas had barely eaten—and had certainly not slept.
The condition of his wife was a grave matter, even though Amelia looked unfazed by her present state. And while she was under his protection, so long as their marriage lasted, he would do everything he could to ensure her well-being.
Even if Amelia does whatever she can to hinder me in that regard, he thought back to the bathing room incident.
“Pray, enter, Your Grace,” said the physician, Dr. Gordon. “I have just finished my examination of the Duchess.”
“And what conclusion have you drawn?” Nicholas asked, casting a weary glance around the space. The medical paraphernalia introduced into Amelia’s chambers—the chambers which had once been his step-mother’s—made the room seem cold and daunting.
“She is recovering well from her fit. Her health seems much improved since yesterday, when I first examined her,” Dr. Gordon said, nodding down at Amelia, who looked unruffled by his intervention. “I see no reason to believe that she is in any danger to herself, for the time being.”
“Good. And you have encountered such complaints before?” Nicholas approached the foot of the bed, examining his wife.
“As I told you when you arrived yestereve, this is not the first time such an attack has come over her. She cannot be the only woman in the world to suffer from these sudden convulsions.”
“They say the devil is in me,” Amelia joked, swallowing a mouthful of tea.
She stretched over to set down her cup, and Nicholas hurried to take it from her, her lady’s maid occupied sorting linens in the adjoining room.
“Did my heartbeat reveal as much to you about that, Dr. Gordon? Could you hear the devil himself whispering dark things to you through your tiny instrument?”
The middle-aged physician chuckled, visibly taken with his patient. “Dark things? No. Not that I heard, Your Grace. But I do not subscribe to this talk of devils and possessions besides.”
“That makes two of us,” Nicholas interjected, casting a reassuring glance at Amelia. “The time I have spent with your patient has proven her sanity to me. The delicateness of her physical health, however, seems another matter entirely.”
The doctor did not look quite as convinced as Nicholas on the subject of Amelia’s stability.
“Yes, well… There are strange workings between the two. I could not pronounce myself with any certainty on the permanence of the matter as of yet,” he replied, tactfully.
“But what I may say with confidence is that there have been plenty of instances in history of women afflicted with illnesses like yours. You have heard the term, I am sure: hysteria.”
“Ah.” Amelia nodded, looking suddenly solemn.
“If you are seeking treatment, there are a great number of physical therapies I could prescribe you, as well as hydrotherapy, mesmerism…” He rolled his hand in the air like he was listing groceries. He nodded at Nicholas. “I shall leave a comprehensive list of suggestions upon my departure.”
“You would be kind to,” Nicholas replied.
Having concluded his visit, Dr. Gordon was escorted outside by Nicholas. When he returned to Amelia’s room, he found her staring absently into space. Her light pink bedcovers were wrapped tightly around her form, her arms rigid at her sides.
“What are you thinking?” he asked, drawing up the seat the physician had left behind at her bedside, but not sitting.
“That… word…” she huffed. “I despise it.”
“He used many words. Which do you refer to?”
“Hysteria.”
“Ah.”
“Over his short lifetime, my father invited a whole army of doctors to examine my mother and try to diagnose her with something they could actually fix.”
She pushed herself up, fluffing the pillow behind her with more force than necessary. Her fist remained balled once she was done.
“They all said the same thing. That she was hysterical and could not be saved. That it would be kinder to treat her illness with isolation so that she could not harm others, only herself.”
“A wicked suggestion.” He pursed his lips, thinking. “Yet, Dr. Gordon suggested there are many treatments we could try.”
“And for that, I believe he is the kindest and cleverest doctor who has ever lived.” She looked up at him at last, a little color having returned to her face since yesterday. “My brother… he does not believe it to be hysteria either.”
Nicholas had heard very little about Amelia’s absent brother, Viscount Frederick Tate. He was abroad—that much he knew—on an errand, the details of which Amelia had not shared with him.
Oxford society had given another explanation for his departure: Viscount Tate had left because he could not bear to watch his sister succumb to the same malady which had killed their mother—and the father, by contact with her.
Nicholas sat. “What does your brother believe?”
Amelia paused a moment before replying, a sad smile ghosting her lips. “He believes there must be some medical explanation for my fits. At the university here in Oxford, he became friends with a student of surgery, and he claimed that there was a word for what plagued me—seizures.”
Having never heard the term before, Nicholas begged her to continue, leaning forward.
“My beloved Freddy…” She smiled harder at the name of her brother. “The moment he was told of these seizures, he began writing doctors and professors all over England and the Continent, bidding them to write him back if they knew anything about conditions which could cause these fits.”
She continued, “A professor of medicine at a university in Paris, who was conducting research into these seizures—who renounced the term hysteria—replied to his letter and asked him to visit him in France. That was two years ago. Freddy has travelled between England and the Continent ever since, returning periodically to Paris to be apprised of the doctor’s research. ”
The whole matter made Nicholas’s head spin. Professors of medicine, seizures, research…
Amelia presented a far different story than the tale of madness and devilry that he had first heard.
“Your mother, then,” he pondered aloud. “She also suffered from these fits?”
Amelia nodded. “Yes. But they were much worse than mine. And she and I… We are quite different. My memory is poor and grows worse each year. But there are many things I can do that my mother could not do. I loved her, but she was cruel. I do not think I am cruel.”
“No.” Nicholas watched her hand relax at her side, her delicate fingers unfurling, her wedding band shimmering in the light of the fire. “I think you are far from cruel.”
“When she suffered the worst of her melancholia, my father ordered me to play Haydn to calm her.” She looked at him, her grey-blue eyes shimmering with tears.
“That is why I refused Haydn at the wedding breakfast. I should have told you when you asked. But I despise speaking about my parents. It is… much too painful.”
“Then you need not say another word on the matter.”
“No.” She sniffed. “Perhaps not.”
He frowned, recalling her collapse at the Bodleian ball, remembering what Samuel had said the following morning, what Amelia herself had claimed.
“If your brother has rejected this diagnosis of hysteria for you and your mother both, why do you play along, Amelia? Why have you claimed you were mad to me all this time?”
Her eyes widened, perhaps with surprise, perhaps with guilt.
“It seemed easier than explaining the truth,” she replied at last, then pressed her lips together until they turned white. “And, frankly… I do not know whether I believe Freddy. It might be these seizures, or it might be madness. It makes little difference to me, in the end.”
He was not sure he agreed, but chose not to press her.
She had suffered enough already.
As night enrobed Riverside Court in darkness, Nicholas lingered a moment in the open doorway of Amelia’s rooms. He watched her sleeping form at a distance, transfixed by the rhythmic rise and fall of her shoulders as she rested.
The banked fire in the hearth cast a warm, faint glow over her body, and the dark pink wallpaper glimmered all around.
This is not right, he thought, breathing hard. I should not be watching her rest. I should not want to. I should not care. And yet, I find myself compelled beyond reason to ensure her safety tonight. The prospect of another fit has driven me mad with worry.
Her lady’s maid sat sleeping in an armchair at her bedside. Amelia would be safe for the evening. In the morning, they would need to prepare for Baron Spencer’s hunting party.
Descending for dinner, he paused on the grand staircase at the sounds of voices.
Samuel stood in the entrance hall with the butler, removing his greatcoat.
He looked unusually anxious as he noticed Nicholas approaching.
The butler, taking Samuel’s coat, left the brothers while he went to finalise the dining hall for their meal.
“You arrived after all,” Nicholas murmured, inspecting his brother. “And yet you look apprehensive. What has happened?”
A flicker of surprise crossed Samuel’s face. “Apprehensive? Never.” He glanced up the stairs. “You have descended alone. Is the duchess awaiting us elsewhere?”
“No,” he replied, moving toward the dining hall. Their boots clapped against the marble floor underfoot. “Unfortunately, Amelia has taken unwell and will not be joining us this evening.”
“Oh, dear.” Samuel slowed his pace. “I hope it is nothing serious.”
He did not reply, not wanting to lie to his brother if he could help it.
“But this means you and I will be dining alone?” Samuel breathed what sounded like a sigh of relief. “I will miss Her Grace’s company, and yet…”
It was not like Samuel to act coy.
Sensing something was wrong, Nicholas held an arm out to stop his brother from moving into the dining hall. The din of cutlery, the sound of serving dishes being laid out, were obscured as Nicholas closed the door before them.
“Something has happened,” Nicholas concluded. “You will tell me at once what it is, Samuel.”
“Well, if the Duke of Avon orders it…” His brother gulped, then looked nervously toward the closed dining room door. “It is a blessing your wife is unwell. I did not know how I would countenance facing you both, knowing what I know… I have heard something out of London.”
The word London fell upon Nicholas like a pail of cold water. His body tensed, and he thought of Amelia, sleeping peacefully upstairs.
“Whatever it is, I do not want to know,” he said categorically.
“But you must,” Samuel protested, grabbing his brother by the shoulder as he tried to enter the dining room. “Nicholas, Sir Richard is leaving England.”
Nicholas started. “How do you know that name?”
“You know me well enough to know I needed to discover the truth of your exile for myself. It did not take long. Word has already spread to the clubs in Oxford about what occurred between you and Summer Harrow—”
“Do not say her name here,” he commanded through gritted teeth.
“You must be told. Or would you rather I keep you in the dark and allow Amelia to discover by her own means what truly transpired between you?”
He clenched his fists at his sides, his stomach coiling in anger. Samuel did not need to know that he had already told Amelia about the affair. He needed no encouragement.
“What I said is true, whether or not it pleases you,” Samuel continued.
“Sir Richard has been shamed, and with your refusal to duel him, he feels his only recourse is to leave polite society for good. He is an old, foolish man who will not be satisfied to live in peace. But once he leaves London, brother, you are free to return. This should be a joyous day…”
“Should it?” he riposted, his tone clipped. “If you truly believed that, you would not have come to me in fear. You have heard something more. I know it.”
“Only that Lady Harrow seeks to reunite with you.” Samuel took him by the shoulder, turned him, forcing him to look at him. “You must not go to her, Nicholas.”
“Are you mad?” Nicholas laughed miserably. “As if I would dare.”
He had made up his mind about Summer long ago.
Their affair had been fleeting, a mistake. Her brown eyes and dark hair appeared unbidden in his mind. The authority in her voice. The way she had assured him, time and time again, that she always got what she wanted in the end.
Before leaving London, he had made his intentions clear. He and Summer would not reunite under any circumstances.
But though Nicholas was done with Summer, Summer was not done with him.