Chapter 8 #2
Rosa hesitated upon finding her hovering nearby—her face aflame, her features tight with anger.
She met Anne’s gaze almost defiantly, then whirled and stalked away, back to Lady Celia’s dressing room.
Mr. Dalby came to the open door, the imprint of a hand reddening his cheek.
Seeing Anne there, he too held her gaze, green eyes glimmering, a sardonic quirk on his lips.
Then he reached out and slammed the door in her face.
Sickening realization washed over Anne. Her sister Fanny had clearly not been the only woman Mr. Dalby had mistreated.
At least Mr. Dalby had broken it off with Fanny before things went too far.
And he had not been married at the time he’d broken her heart.
Poor Rosa. How many other women had the man injured, one way or another?
Anne had just made it back to her own room when the moaning started.
She rushed to Lady Celia’s bedside. “My lady! What is it?”
“Oooh. I am going to be sick. . . .” The woman began climbing from bed, and Anne assisted her.
“Something you ate, or . . . ? Oh, dear.”
Anne grabbed a clean chamber pot just as Lady Celia retched. Louie lifted his head from his basket and whined in sympathy.
“That beef tea. Knew it tasted off—fishy. I can’t have shellfish. Everyone in the house knows that. Did you prepare it yourself?”
“The cook did, or perhaps her kitchen maid—that’s who heated it when I requested your dinner.”
“Mrs. Pratt has been with me for ages. Loyal. Don’t know the kitchen maid well.”
She retched again, the violence of the convulsion racking her already-frail body. Poor woman!
Drawn by the commotion, Rosa tentatively entered the mistress’s bedchamber, eyes wide to see Lady Celia on all fours, head bent over a pot, countenance a waxy green.
“Rosa, good. Please stay with her a moment,” Anne said. “I need to fetch something from the medicine chest. Best if she expels as much as possible first, as unpleasant as it is. Then I’ll give her something for her stomach.”
While she was at it, Anne closed Louie inside her room, away from the waste and chaos.
When Anne returned with the bottle, she said, “Please summon one of the doctors. Or send Toby to do so.”
Rosa nodded and hurried away.
Lady Celia was racked by convulsions for another twenty minutes before the nausea subsided long enough for her to keep down the chalky bismuth-and-charcoal tonic Anne had given her.
Then she began wheezing instead, struggling to draw sufficient air.
Anne helped the limp woman sit up on the floor and rest her back against the bedframe, her countenance transitioning from pale green to blue, especially around her lips.
Anne counted the woman’s rapid pulse and began to worry in earnest. She prayed too and hoped Rosa would return with the doctor soon.
She had expected—hoped for—experienced Dr. Marsland, but instead Dr. Finch hurried in, somewhat out of breath, Rosa on his heels.
He quickly knelt beside the woman. “What did she ingest?”
“She thinks there was shellfish in her beef broth. She has had violent reactions to shellfish in the past although she insists her cook knows better than to serve it. She vomited several times and is now struggling to breathe. Her pulse is very rapid.”
He nodded. Pulling a bottle from his brown leather medical bag, he administered a syrup of milkweed for her constricted throat.
Milkweed was known to lessen inflammation and relieve breathing difficulties.
Anne was impressed he knew to use it. Such remedies were often familiar only to apothecaries, or in her father’s case, a surgeon-apothecary.
Anne resolved to procure some of the syrup for her own medicine case at the first opportunity.
“Come, my lady. Let’s get you back into bed,” he said. He and Rosa gently assisted the frail woman to her feet and into the bed. Anne hurried to settle the bedclothes over her, for now the woman was racked with chills as she continued to wheeze.
Anne built up the fire while Dr. Finch lit a lamp to diffuse mullein into the room and set it on Lady Celia’s bedside table to further ease her throat and lungs. Rosa went to find an extra blanket.
“Do you want me to summon your daughter?” Anne asked the suffering woman. “Or at least let her know?”
Lady Celia vehemently shook her head.
After another half an hour, the woman’s labored breathing finally eased and she fell back against the pillow and closed her eyes, clearly exhausted.
“She’ll need clear liquids after that,” he said. “Of course not the broth she had earlier.”
Anne nodded. “I’ll go down now, if you will stay with her?”
“I will.”
Anne went down the many stairs until she reached the kitchen. The workrooms were quiet except for a young maid washing the last of the dishes in the adjacent scullery, and the kitchen maid perched on a stool, eating a late-night piece of pie. Anne asked her where she might find Mrs. Pratt.
“In her room, miss. Just gone to bed.”
“Which room is hers?”
“Second on the right.”
“Thank you.” Anne went to the door and knocked.
She heard a heavy sigh from within, followed by, “Yes? Come.”
Anne entered.
Mrs. Pratt looked up, still fully dressed, and rose. “Oh, Miss Loveday. Did not expect you. Just about to turn in for the night. Worn off my feet.”
“I understand. I imagine you are much busier with two men now in residence who probably eat a great deal more than Miss Fitzjohn and her mother do.”
“True. Especially with Lady Celia feeling poorly. No appetite for some time now.”
“Speaking of that . . . Lady Celia has been violently ill for the last hour or so. She thinks shellfish might have somehow found its way into her beef broth. I know you are careful, but—”
“Oh no! God forgive me, I never thought it might somehow foul the broth.”
“What do you mean?”
“I haven’t made anything with shellfish in years.
Lady Celia can’t abide it. I haven’t even had any in the house.
But with Mr. Jude home . . . Well, lobster soup is one of his favorites.
I truly didn’t think it would cause any harm, with Lady Celia not coming to the table, and her all the way up in her own room.
I can’t think how it would have happened. Surely not through the air?”
“I don’t think contamination happens that way.”
“Then how? I was ever so careful to keep the pots and spoons and whatnot separate. Instructed Kezia—that’s the scullery maid—to wash them all thoroughly afterward too.”
“Some strange accident, then?”
“It must have been. I don’t know how else to explain it. Her ladyship must be furious. And I’m too old to find another place.”
“She does not blame you. She mentioned you are loyal and know better, but she did wonder if the kitchen maid, perhaps . . . ?”
“Clara prepared that last batch of broth as I instructed, but that was yesterday, before the lobster was delivered.”
“Clara also heated a cup of broth for me this evening when I requested it.”
“I suppose it’s possible she used a pot that had not been thoroughly scoured.”
“And the lobster soup?” Anne asked. “Was it anywhere near the broth?”
“Relatively near, I suppose. For a time. I boiled the lobsters straightaway and set the pot in the larder to cool before removing the meat. Later I finished preparing the soup myself, but I was very careful.”
“Is the soup all gone?”
Guilt colored the woman’s round face. “There is one small bowl left—it’s in the larder. Thought I might reheat it for myself as a treat. But I will dispose of it immediately.”
“I think that wise, Mrs. Pratt.”
“Oh, poor Miss Fitzjohn . . .”
“Poor Miss Fitzjohn?” Anne echoed in confusion. “Why do you say that?”
“She plans the menus now her mother is ill. She requested the soup in honor of her cousin’s homecoming.”
“Did she indeed? And the pot of beef broth is still in the larder too?”
“Aye. A batch lasts a few days.”
“Would you mind if I had a look? And smelled it?”
“Of course not. Right this way.” Picking up a lamp from the table, Mrs. Pratt led Anne into the cold larder and pointed out the two vessels.
Anne went to the broth pot, lifted the lid, bent, and smelled. Did it smell of fish? After the vile smells she had experienced in Lady Celia’s room, it was difficult to tell.
Mrs. Pratt, who was far more accustomed to subtle kitchen smells, took a whiff as well. She wrinkled her nose. “It does smell of fish. How on earth . . . ?”
Anne walked over to the bowl the cook had pointed out and lifted the small plate used to cover it. Only a little soup remained, but even so the smell was evident and distinct.
Mrs. Pratt followed her and sniffed the bowl in dismay. “That does smell similar. I still don’t understand how it happened. My kitchen and scullery maids know better.”
“Does anyone else come down here? Other servants or the family?”
Mrs. Pratt gazed upward in thought. “Miss Katherine and her cousins come down from time to time. I didn’t see anyone today, though I suppose it’s possible someone visited the larder while we were all busy in the kitchen or scullery.”
The kitchen maid came into the larder and drew up short at finding the two women there.
Mrs. Pratt turned to her. “Ah, Clara. Any idea how lobster soup found its way into Lady Celia’s broth?”
The girl’s eyes widened into saucers of shock. “What? No, ma’am. It can’t be. I would never. You told me how sick it makes her.”
“That’s what I thought. Well, better go to bed if you’re through for the night. Or did you need something in here?”
The girl swallowed. “Just wanted a cup of milk. But I don’t need—”
“Never mind. Take it and go.”
When the maid scurried off, the cook lifted the pot.
“Don’t worry, miss. Don’t know how it happened, but I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.
I’ll dispose of the remaining soup and this broth right now and see that Kezia scours both vessels with lye and sand.
And I’ll make a fresh batch of broth myself. ”
“Thank you, Mrs. Pratt. That will relieve my mind.”
Despite her words, when Anne left the kitchen a short while later with a glass of lemon-barley water for Lady Celia, her mind remained anxious. Had it really been an accident or had someone purposely put shellfish into a frail woman’s beef broth? Who would do that, and why?