Chapter 29
Twenty-Nine
Alasdair managed to leave the sick room one time in the next eighteen hours.
The butler Andrews had his trunk of clothes brought from the snowbound coach, and Alasdair luxuriated in a quick, hot bath and changed into a fresh shirt and hose and trousers.
He was glad to get back into a waistcoat and a tailcoat and to note he no longer needed the sling although he would continue to rest his right arm as much as possible.
He returned to the sick room and snatched short naps while sitting up in a chair, as every physician learns to do.
Lord Morpeth continued to be delirious and required being tied to the bed as well as strong men standing by so he would not thrash and tear his stitches loose. Lady Lyndmouth and Lady Morpeth returned to keep vigil, often together.
The next morning, Arabella came into the sick room.
Alasdair had his eyes closed, but he was hovering on the edge of sleep, still somewhat aware of what passed. He noted Arabella’s sweet scent first. Then he heard her soft steps. Lady Lyndmouth’s voice, very quiet, came to his ears.
“Mrs. Andrews, Lord Morpeth still lives. We are so grateful to you and your husband.”
“It’s all to do with Dr. Andrews, I assure you.”
“He is a miracle. That he should be here just when he was most needed. And he has only left the bedside for twenty minutes altogether.”
Feeling guilty for his inadvertent eavesdropping, Alasdair rubbed his eyes and yawned noisily.
She was by his side instantly.
“Dr. Andrews.”
“Mrs. Andrews.”
If only she were. He gazed at her, trying to drink in every detail of her face, her hair, her body. She had slept, he could tell. She looked rested and fed. She had a different dress on.
“Alasdair, you must go to your own bed and sleep, or you will become a patient as well.”
He stood. “Nonsense.”
“Tell me what to look for in Lord Morpeth’s condition, and I will have someone fetch you if there is a crisis.”
“Ye did admirably with the surgery. It widnae have been successful without ye. But this isnae yer task, this is mine.”
Lady Lyndmouth called, “Doctor?”
She was at the head of the bed. Lord Morpeth’s eyes were open and looking at Lady Lyndmouth.
Alasdair felt the man’s forehead. “His fever is down.” He felt the wrist. “The pulse disnae race, and ’tis strong.”
“Water.” This was from the baron. A very weak and cracked voice.
“Just a sip.” Alasdair directed the footman and the groom who had been standing by to release Lord Morpeth from his straps. Morpeth clasped Lady Lyndmouth’s hand, as Alasdair supported his head and brought a cup of water to his lips.
Morpeth took a sip and swallowed with no difficulty.
“More,” he said.
“In time, Lord Morpeth.” Alasdair turned to Lady Lyndmouth. “This cup of water should last an hour. Only a small sip every few minutes. If he vomits or chokes, ye must have someone come get me immediately. If he does well with the cup of water, he can have two cups the next hour, and so on.”
“Yes, Doctor,” Lady Lyndmouth said as she took the cup from him. “I will have Lady Morpeth come to the bedside, as well.
“Aye. Have someone fetch me if fever returns, if his pain worsens.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
Only then did Alasdair let Arabella take him from the room and into another. And only after she had led him to the bed and taken off his tailcoat and waistcoat and eased off his boots and made him recline did he realize he was in her bedchamber.
He drifted off, secure in the knowledge she was in the room with him. Dauntless Arabella, guarding the doctor’s sleep.