Chapter 21
Twenty-One
Athin woman opened the bedchamber door. The butler Andrews murmured something and walked away.
“I am Nurse Gastrell,” the woman said. Her eyes were pale, her brown hair flecked with gray.
“I am Dr. Alasdair Andrews. Yer mistress asked to see me.”
Nurse Gastrell stepped aside from the door and allowed him to enter the room.
The windows were covered, but many candles and lamps burned so the room was almost blazing with light. The smell was not foul, as it was in many sick rooms. There was a fresh green smell, quite like rosemary. Alasdair took heart from that.
He followed the nurse farther into the room.
A small figure lay in the bed, so small that Alasdair’s imagination almost led him to believe she was a child-bride until he drew close enough to see the lines in the woman’s face. She might be the same age as Alasdair. She might be older.
The woman was blonde, but her hair was thin and patches of her scalp showed through. Her eyebrows were so fair as to be invisible. She opened her eyes as Alasdair approached the bed, and he could see her eyes were blue.
“My lady, I am Dr. Alasdair Andrews.” He bowed.
“You are Scottish?”
“Aye.”
“My butler told me there was a physician here in the house, and I decided I should consult you. But how do you come to be here? I heard from my nurse there is a snowstorm raging.”
“I was on my way south with . . . uh, my wife when the snowstorm blew in. We asked for refuge, and yer husband was good enough to provide it.”
“It is our luck then that you landed on our doorstep.”
“’Twas lucky for us, I assure ye. There is a dangerous amount of snow.”
The entire time they had been talking, he had been taking note of her skin, her breath, the look of her eyes.
“Tell me about yer illness, my lady.”
“I am an invalid, Dr. Andrews.” She sighed and looked at the ceiling.
“I have been ever since my husband married me. I have consulted countless physicians. None of them know the cause of my illness. That, however, has not stopped them from subjecting me to many cures. Cures, I believe, that have worsened my condition, rather than improving it.”
“What are yer symptoms?”
“Diarrhea, abdominal pain, headaches. Sometimes I am, apparently, delirious. Sometimes my vision changes.”
“Fevers?”
“None.” This was from Nurse Gastrell, who was standing in the corner, watching him.
“Can ye eat?”
“I could until recently. I have been vomiting, of late.”
“Yer monthly courses? What are they like? When was the last one?”
Lady Morpeth looked at her nurse who shrugged.
“They are . . . scant, I believe, as compared to other women,” Lady Morpeth said. “But I cannot remember the last time I bled, Doctor.”
“May I examine ye further, my lady?”
“Yes.”
Lady Morpeth’s pulse was very slow but regular. Her lungs were clear. Upon palpation of her lower abdomen, her uterus was slightly enlarged but not tender.
“I wonder . . .” he said.
“Yes, Doctor?”
“I ken it disnae explain yer many years of illness, but is it possible ye are with child right now?”
Lady Morpeth grew agitated and tried to sit up on her elbows but did not have the strength and fell back. Her nurse came and helped her sit and put pillows behind her.
“I suppose . . . I suppose it is possible.”
“She has been so ill,” the nurse said. “It hardly seems likely she would have the strength.”
“I have never been able to bear a child, Doctor.”
“I dinnae ken what yer underlying illness is, but if ye usually have monthly courses and ye have nae blood within the next month, I believe ye may be pregnant.”
“What will you do for me, Doctor. Will you bleed me?”
“Nae.”
“No bleeding?”
“Nae. At this juncture, I dinnae ken it will help since I dinnae ken what disease ye have. And it will certainly nae help if ye are with child. However,” he paused here, “I will speak to the cook. There may be some foods that will settle yer stomach. To eat might help ye to feel better.”
The nurse spoke. “You are going to do nothing for her, Doctor?”
“I only do things when I think they will improve the patient’s health. So I will undertake to make sure my lady takes in some food without vomiting.”
Lady Morpeth held her hand out to Alasdair.
“Thank you, Doctor.”
He nodded, bowed over her hand, and went away.
He thought Lady Morpeth’s appearance very odd. She was very small, blonde, blue eyes. So much like Lady Lyndmouth downstairs. And like Arabella. Lady Morpeth was some older, bedridden version of Arabella.
Lord Morpeth had a kind of woman, apparently.
Alasdair shuddered. How very glad he was that his Arabella was healthy.
He went down to the kitchens and found two scullery maids washing the dishes from luncheon.
One of them went and roused the cook for him, and he sat with her at a well-scrubbed wooden table and explained the broth from chickens, the egg whites, the dry cracker.
The cook scoffed at first, saying the baroness had never been a good eater.
But the cook would endeavor to make the broth and a dry cracker tomorrow.
And the whites of egg could go up right now.
“I have heard ye have very few hens’ eggs right now,” Alasdair said. “May I suggest ye reserve all egg whites for Lady Morpeth?”
At dinner, Morpeth confronted Alasdair.
“I heard you went to see my wife, Andrews. Without my permission.”
Alasdair finished chewing his bite of meat, took a sip of his small beer, wiped his mouth.
“Aye.” And then, reluctantly, “I apologize. I should have spoken to ye first.” Another sip of small beer. “Although it would have made nae difference what ye said. I ne’er refuse the request of a patient to see me.”
Morpeth sneered. “As long as they can pay your fee.”
“No.” That was Arabella. “Dr. Andrews sees any patient in Sommerleigh, without asking a fee. It makes no difference to him who it is. It could be a tinker,” Arabella must have heard that tragic story from Thomas or Harry, “or a countess like my sister.”
“Well, Andrews,” Morpeth said. “I wonder how you might feel if I paid a visit to your wife’s bedchamber without telling you?”
There were a few gasps at the table.
Alasdair saw daggers in his vision again. Red ones. He felt a kick under the table. Arabella was glaring at him. He took a deep breath.
“I widnae like it, Lord Morpeth. Hence my apology to ye.”
“Which I do not accept. Stay away from my wife.”
“If she asks for me, I will go to her. But I will make sure ye are told, Lord Morpeth, so ye may also be present.”
“That seems perfectly fair,” the Marquess of Painswick interjected. “After all, the man has a duty. Be reasonable, Morpeth.”
The baron laughed, said he was not known for his reason, and asked for more wine for himself and Lord Painswick. But Alasdair did not forget the very real menace that had crackled between them. And Lord Morpeth’s threat to visit Arabella in her bedchamber.