Chapter 27
Twenty-Seven
She was gone.
She had come to him, and he had only made the situation worse by revealing his frailty, his jealousy, his acquisitive nature.
He had lost control, just as he had in the drawing room when he had almost struck Morpeth.
And, worst of all, he had made her feel ashamed of her past when he should have been the one healing that wound, not the one ripping it open again.
He had been the stupid man. Again.
The butler Andrews was standing in the door Arabella had left open. He coughed to get Alasdair’s attention.
“Lord Morpeth is ill, Dr. Andrews. Will you come?”
Alasdair felt himself about to cry or vomit.
Still, he had never refused a request for his skills as a doctor, no matter his own anguish.
No matter how ill he had been himself when a terrible fever had swept over his ship, far out in the Atlantic.
No matter how weak his own bowels had been when he was on duty during his training and dysentery had crippled the hospital in Edinburgh.
And he needed to get away from his wretched self. Work had always been his best escape. It was much better to be consumed by someone else’s pain than to be dwelling in his own.
He followed the butler down the hallway to the central part of the house, to the bedchamber next to Lady Morpeth’s.
The baron was in only a shirt and trousers, lying supine on the bed. When the butler and Alasdair came into the room, he tried to get up but winced and had to lie back.
“I did not ask for a physician,” he growled.
“I did.” A sharp voice. Alasdair then saw Lady Lyndmouth was in the room.
She went on, “Lord Morpeth has been having some pain in his belly for some hours now. Perhaps since luncheon?” She turned to Morpeth, who said nothing.
Alasdair waited.
“You must help him, Doctor,” Lady Lyndmouth said.
“Yes.” Morpeth grinned, a few beads of sweat on his forehead in the cold room. “Yes, we will see, won’t we, if you really do treat everyone the same. Even those you may have a grievance against.”
“I can only help if Lord Morpeth wants my help,” Alasdair said.
“Giles,” Lady Lyndmouth pleaded, all sharpness from her voice gone. “Giles.”
Again, Morpeth tried to sit up, his face contorting in pain, and had to fall back.
“Fine. The bloodletter can examine me.”
Alasdair approached the bed.
“I apologize for my appearance, Lord Morpeth.” Alasdair meant he was wearing what Morpeth was—just trousers and an untucked shirt.
“We are dressed the same, Doctor. Illness is a great equalizer.” Morpeth grimaced.
“Aye.” Alasdair was surprised to hear one of his own deeply-held beliefs from the baron.
“What did ye eat for luncheon?” he asked.
“He did not eat,” Lady Lyndmouth said.
“Why didnae ye eat, Lord Morpeth?”
“I was not hungry.”
“Perhaps the pain had started before luncheon then?”
“Perhaps.”
“Perhaps even yesterday?”
“Yes. But very little then.”
“Have ye seen any blood in yer urine? Or in yer stool?”
“No.”
“And the pain is where?”
Morpeth pointed to the center of his abdomen.
“And obviously the pain is worse when ye move.”
“For the last two hours, the only thing that eases it at all is holding perfectly still, Doctor. Even then, it is still present.”
Alasdair looked in Morpeth’s eyes and could see fear.
Big men like Lord Morpeth were not used to physical limitations.
And to be a big man and a lord—Alasdair could see how one might feel omnipotent, might have the arrogance to think the world existed only for one’s pleasure.
How one might reach out and destroy a young woman’s life with as little care as one might have in picking a daisy.
Alasdair wondered what kind of man he might be if he had been born into Lord Morpeth’s position and had never starved or struggled or endured bone-aching weariness.
He would never know, and he was glad. He was more than glad. An unexpected surge of joy ran through him.
He suddenly felt free.
For the first time in years, he could not imagine envying any other man. He was not jealous of any lord, positioned high above him in the strata of society. Not Lord Morpeth. Not even his friend, the earl, Thomas Drake.
Alasdair Andrews had kissed Arabella Lovelock. He had held Arabella Lovelock. He had slept next to Arabella Lovelock. And now every effort in his life must be bent towards making sure those things happened again. And again. And again. And so on, for the rest of his life.
At one time, she had thought he was the not-stupid man. He must be that for her. And the first step was continuing his life’s work. Being the best physician he could be, even if it was for this man in front of him.
Arabella had defended Alasdair, his practice. He must be worthy of that defense.
“May I touch ye, Lord Morpeth?”
Morpeth started to laugh and then stopped.
“The tensing of the abdominal muscles hurts, my lord?”
“Yes. I wondered how you were going to examine me with one arm, and I felt the irony of it, Doctor.”
“I only need one arm and hand to examine ye.”
Morpeth bit his lip. “I heard you scream some hours ago. I hope you have less pain now.”
It was not an apology, but Alasdair wondered if this was the first time Lord Morpeth had experienced sympathy, so close on the heels of Alasdair’s severe pain had his own followed.
“The pain is considerably improved now that the dislocation is reduced, thank ye, Lord Morpeth.” Alasdair took Morpeth’s wrist in his hand and felt his pulse. It was rapid, and the skin was hot. He noted a chamber pot by the bed, filled with clear gastric juices. “Ye have vomited, I see.”
“When I move and the pain is bad, I vomit.”
“I would like to raise yer shirt and unbutton the fall of yer trousers.”
“Yes, Doctor,” Morpeth said.
Alasdair looked at Lady Lyndmouth.
“I am not leaving,” she said. “I have seen everything, I assure you.” She did not blush.
Alasdair raised the baron’s shirt but found he could not unbutton the fall of the trousers with only one hand.
Lady Lyndmouth pushed him aside. “Let me.” She unbuttoned Morpeth’s fall but left it in place and stepped back.
Alasdair observed the skin of the abdomen with its pelt of dark hair.
It appeared normal. He leaned down and put his ear to all four quadrants of the abdomen and heard bowel sounds.
Perhaps decreased, but present. He straightened and observed again how still Lord Morpeth was.
Alasdair took his left hand and pushed on the umbilicus.
“Unh.”
The abdomen was slightly rigid under Alasdair’s pressing hand. He now moved to the left upper quadrant, right upper quadrant. The same pain reaction from Morpeth, the same degree of rigidity. Now, he pressed in the left lower quadrant.
“When,” Morpeth gasped, “when you pressed me there, I felt it on the other side.”
Alasdair now pressed on the right lower quadrant.
Rock hard.
Morpeth came up off the bed in a spasm and grabbed Alasdair’s left arm in a pincer grip of iron.
“Don’t,” he said through his teeth, “touch me,” he fell back but did not release Alasdair’s arm, “there.”
“Let go of the Doctor, Giles, before you break his one good arm.” Lady Lyndmouth’s voice continued to be cool.
Morpeth released Alasdair’s arm.
“Now I must examine yer scrotum.” Alasdair folded down the unbuttoned fall.
Both sides of the scrotum looked normal.
Morpeth appeared to have no increase in his pain when Alasdair palpated the testicles, both of which had a normal lie.
Alasdair allowed himself an unprofessional moment of satisfaction in seeing that Lord Morpeth’s flaccid phallus did not seem much larger than his own when in the same state.
He put the fall back in place. “That didnae hurt, Lord Morpeth, did it? When I felt yer testicles?”
“No.” And then Morpeth grinned. “I was worried for a moment you might twist one and exact a little revenge for your shoulder.”
“Forgive me,” Alasdair said and put his left hand under Morpeth’s right knee and lifted his leg.
Again, Morpeth came off the bed, and this time a scream escaped his lips. Alasdair put the leg back down gently. Lady Lyndmouth was sitting on the bed, her hands on Lord Morpeth’s face, and she was attempting to soothe him.
“We will get you something for your pain, Giles.” She looked at Alasdair. “Won’t we?”
“Aye. We will have to ask the Marchioness of Painswick for some of her laudanum.”
But Morpeth shook his head and said through his teeth, “No, I don’t want it.”
Lady Lyndmouth stroked his face. “Just a little, Giles. So you can rest.”
“No.”
The butler Andrews, who had been silent throughout, spoke. “Is there anything you need, Dr. Andrews?”
Alasdair went to the window, pulled back a curtain, and looked out. It was pitch dark.
“The snow stopped earlier. When the dawn comes, if the snow continues to hold off, some men might go to the carriage and recover my medical bag. I will describe it for ye.” He crossed to the butler Andrews and said in an undertone, “Please ask Mrs. Andrews which of her trunks she would like, as well. She would appreciate another dress to wear, I am sure. And endeavor to ask the marquess about his wife’s laudanum.
If he resists, tell me, and I will ask him myself. ”
His voice had clearly not been low enough. Lady Lyndmouth stood. “I will go to Lord Painswick now. I will have him take me to the marchioness’ room, and I will bring the laudanum.”
“I will not take it,” Morpeth said.
Alasdair stepped to the bed again. “We will only have it ready, my lord, in case ye change yer mind. Perhaps the pain will pass.”
“What is it, Doctor?” Morpeth asked. Alasdair could hear him try to mask his fear with gruffness. “What is the cause of the pain?”