Chapter One
Lady Justina Fulton nervously paced the drawing room, awaiting Dr. Roberts’ arrival.
“Pacing will not bring Dr. Roberts any sooner,” Tray said. “Come and sit.”
She did as her brother suggested, taking a seat next to him on the settee. He slipped an arm about her, and she drew comfort from his warmth.
“What if Mama dies?” she asked.
“Dr. Roberts will not let that happen,” Tray said firmly.
She snorted. “He is merely mortal. He is not God.” Pausing, Justina wiped away a tear. “I am sorry. I do not wish to be short-tempered with you.”
He kissed the top of her head. “I know, Jus. I am as worried as you are.”
She looked up at him. “You have not called me Jus since we were children.”
Smiling, he softly said, “I know.”
That was when her gut told her Mama would not survive this dreaded lung fever.
Her mother was the rock of not only their family but of the three families which consisted of ten cousins.
While her Aunt Charlotte liked to think that she was in charge of everyone, all the cousins turned to their Aunt Agnes when they needed advice.
Comfort. Or even a jolly laugh. Justina had always been secretly pleased that her mother was the most popular person in their large, extended family.
She was nurturing and witty and had been an absolutely perfect mother.
When Mama had first fallen ill a month ago, she had mentioned being fatigued.
That, coupled with a troublesome cough, had seemed to diminish her appetite.
Justina had wanted to send for Dr. Roberts, but Mama had put off calling the physician, saying that she would be fine in a few days.
Instead of improving after a week, she had become worse overnight.
She suffered from chills, causing her fever to soar one night, frightening both Justina and Tray.
Mama begged not to send for the doctor in the middle of the night, saying they could instead send a message in the morning.
By morning, a sharp pain had developed on one side, and Mama said it hurt to breathe.
Tray had ridden into Kidsgrove to fetch Dr. Roberts, and the doctor had come at once.
Once he had examined Mama, he had called Justina and Tray into the room at Mama’s request and shared his diagnosis of lung fever.
Dr. Roberts said that it caused chest pain when a person breathed and especially hurt when a cough occurred.
Dr. Roberts thought they had caught it early, and suggested applying a linseed poultice covered with oiled silk, binding it tightly to Mama’s torso, the poultice resting on her right side.
He also prescribed Dover’s powder, to be taken in tea, saying it would induce sweating and then keep the fever at bay.
He also said that Mama was to eat broth and eggs and drink milk and alcohol, brandy, in particular.
They had seen little to no improvement. The cough grew worse, with phlegm that was tinged a greenish-yellow at first, then turning bloody.
Mama’s fever and chills continued, the fever so high at times that she grew delirious.
She ate little to nothing, which led to more fatigue.
Now, her lips and fingertips had turned blue, which is why they had sent for Dr. Roberts.
He usually called every afternoon, but Justina had insisted he come this morning.
The door to the drawing room opened, and Larsen appeared. Instead of announcing the physician’s arrival, the butler told them Hillman was here and needed to see Lord Traywick at once.
“Send him in,” Tray said.
Their steward entered the room, crossing it and coming to stand before them.
Justina liked Mr. Hillman. She had learned a great deal from him, as all three of the Fulton children followed the steward about in the years after their father and brother Lucius were killed in a horrific carriage accident.
Tray, known as Hadrian, then, had inherited his father’s title at the tender age of ten.
Immediately, her brother wanted to learn everything about how their country estate ran, and Justina and their sister Verina shadowed—and learned—as Tray himself followed Hillman about.
“Forgive me if I am interrupting, my lord,” the steward said. “But it’s Demeter.”
“Has her labor started?” asked Tray.
“Yes, her water broke three hours ago.” Hillman paused. “No foal has appeared. Demeter is in distress. I sent for the veterinarian, and he is with her now. I thought you would wish to know, however.”
Justina knew from having sat with horses that a mare would usually give birth a quarter-hour to a half-hour after her water sac broke. She would then expel the placenta sometime during the next three hours after birth occurred. Alarm filled her.
“Go, Tray,” she urged. “I will meet with Dr. Roberts.”
He hesitated. “Are you certain?”
“I will share everything he tells me,” she promised. “Mama loves Demeter. Go and see to her care.”
Reluctantly, her brother rose. “I will be back as soon as I can.”
Once Tray left, Justina returned to her pacing. Less than five minutes later, Larsen was back, announcing Dr. Roberts’ presence.
“Send him in at once,” she instructed, collecting herself in order to greet the physician.
He came to her, and she offered him a seat, asking, “What does this latest symptom mean, Dr. Roberts? We have done all that you have asked, and Mama is still seeing no improvement.”
“I will not dance around the issue, Lady Justina,” he said, sympathy in his eyes. “Lady Traywick is very ill. With her lips and fingernails turning blue, this is a terrible sign.”
“Will we lose her?” she asked, her voice breaking on the last word.
“I am afraid that will be the case,” he said gently.
Tears welled in her eyes. “Are you certain there is no more we can do?”
“Comfort her,” he responded. “It is time to use opium for her pain.”
While the Dover’s powder had traces of opium within it, Justina knew how serious Mama’s condition was now that Dr. Roberts was recommending opium.
“She is in pain,” he said. “You know that yourself. She has told me that each breath is as if she is being stabbed in her chest. She has eaten next to nothing for weeks.” He paused. “It is time to say your final goodbyes, my lady. I fear Lady Traywick does not have long.”
“I understand.” She slipped a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed her eyes. “Will you come see her now?”
“I will.”
“And will you tell her what you have just shared with me?”
“She deserves to know. Many physicians lie to their patients. I will not do that to Lady Traywick.”
Justina accompanied him upstairs. Bessie, Mama’s lady’s maid, sat by the bedside. She rose and excused herself, but Mama weakly said, “Stay.”
Bessie retreated to a corner as Dr. Roberts went to stand on one side of the bed and Justina on the other. Mama’s face was flushed with fever and she coughed, wincing as she did so. Justina wished she could ease her mother’s suffering.
“I cannot seem to . . . catch my breath. Every breath is filled with pain. My heart is beating wildly. Am I . . . dying?” Mama asked pointedly.
Without hesitation, Dr. Roberts replied, “Yes, my lady. I am afraid that is the case. We have done all we can for you.”
Another coughing spell hit, Mama’s too-thin body racked by it. Justina held a handkerchief to her mother’s lips, and the bloody mucus covered it within seconds.
“I am going to give you a tincture of laudanum,” Dr. Roberts explained. “It will greatly ease your suffering. It will also dull your senses. You will sleep much of the time.”
“Until I am gone,” Mama said flatly. She shook her head. “Thank you for all you have done, Doctor.”
Dr. Roberts explained to Justina and Bessie how much laudanum to use and suggested putting it in weak tea for Mama to drink.
“Go and ask Cook for tea now, Bessie,” Justina instructed, and the servant left the room.
Dr. Roberts looked back to the bed. “I am sorry I could not save you, my lady. You are highly thought of in this community. It will be a great loss for everyone.”
Mama coughed solidly for a minute and then swallowed. “Thank you for your frankness. Not many doctors would be so open, especially with a woman.”
“You deserve to know your fate, Lady Traywick.” He hesitated. “I encourage you to say your goodbyes now to your children. Once you start taking the opium, it will be difficult to speak and think clearly.”
Mama tried to thank him again, but the coughing started up and he bid her goodbye. Justina walked him to the door of the bedchamber.
“Thank you for everything you have done for Mama,” she said earnestly. “And for letting us know to say our last goodbyes.”
“Send for me if you need anything, my lady.”
“I will.”
Returning to her mother, Justina perched on the bed. She fluffed her mother’s pillows some before wetting the cloth in the basin of water sitting at the bedside. She placed it against her mother’s fevered brow.
Mama gazed up, her eyes glazed. “I am sorry I cannot take you to town . . . for the Season. I so looked forward to seeing you . . . in your ballgowns.”
She had never been interested in having a Season, unlike her sister Verina, who had eagerly looked forward to making her come-out.
Verina had wed the Duke of Reddington, and she and Matthew now had Marcus, who had turned a year old last month.
Justina had written to her sister of their mother’s illness.
Verina had replied promptly, asking if she should come to Traywick Manor.
After discussing it with her brother, Tray had told Justina to tell Verina no.
That if Mama grew stronger, she would come to town for the Season to see family.
If Mama did not improve, Verina could travel from London to Cumberland to see Mama.
Now, she would have to write to her sister and let her know Mama would not be with them much longer. She hoped Verina would not regret staying at home and missing these final days with Mama.
“You know I am unlike Verina, Mama. She lived to make her debut into Polite Society.”