A Highland Duchess Page 17

  What did he expect her to say? That Fate was a capricious bitch who’d played them both false? But this was no time for recriminations or explanations.

  “He’s very sick,” Emma said. “He has been for the last two hours. The doctor is with him now.”

  With her words, she gifted him with sanity and released him from the power of her presence.

  As he began to wash his hands, another tune his nurse had hummed on their outings came to him.

  O I loved a lass and I loved her so well

  I hated all others who spoke of her ill

  But now she’s rewarded me well for my love

  For she’s gone and she’s married another.

  How damnably appropriate.

  Nestled in the corner of the house, the sickroom boasted two sets of windows, both now open to the early afternoon breeze. In most sickrooms there was a scarcity of furniture, the thought being that the fewer furnishings, the better. In this room, however, there was a small round table on either side of the bed, an overstuffed chair in the corner accompanied by another table and lamp, and the sickroom cabinet taking up most of the far wall.

  Bryce was unconscious, the pallor of his skin tending toward yellow. He smelled of sickness, garlic, and wine, a curious and noxious combination.

  Dr. Carrick was bent over the bed, examining him.

  Albert Carrick, rotund, short, and looking perpetually confused, was singled out from the rest of men his age by his remarkable thatch of curly black hair. If his wife, Brenda, did not trim it on a regular basis, Albert’s hair would have reached his shoulders, invaded his ears, and obscured his eyes. Albert’s hair was a living entity, a creature that demanded its own life, leading Ian to think that he should have nicknamed his friend Samson.

  At Ian’s entrance, Albert straightened. “Welcome back, Ian,” he said, but his expression was not his usual cheerful one. He was frowning, a fact that Ian immediately noted. “Did the symposium go well?”

  Ian nodded. They could discuss London later.

  “What’s wrong with him?” he asked.

  “I’m not quite sure,” Albert said, continuing his examination. He bent over Bryce again, to smell his breath, before unbuttoning his coat and shirt to palpate his chest. Bryce’s shoes had been removed, but otherwise he was still fully dressed, the stains on his clothing attesting to the misery of his journey.

  Mrs. Jenkins bustled around the end of the bed. Emma sat on the chair in the corner, remaining silent. Only when Albert turned and bowed slightly to her in that European way of his, and began to ask her questions, did she speak.

  “Has he been ill for very long?”

  “Since around noon,” she said. “I thought him inebriated,” she added, staring down at the floor. She looked up a moment later, and continued. “It wasn’t until later that I realized he was ill.”

  “When you determined he was ill, how did you make that judgment?” Albert asked.

  She listed the symptoms Bryce had experienced during the day. Albert nodded at each one of them.

  “Is it cholera?” Emma asked finally.

  “I can see why you would think that,” Albert said. “The symptoms are indeed similar. But no, Mrs. McNair, I can promise you that it is not cholera.”

  “Then what is it?” Ian asked.

  Albert turned to him, removed his spectacles and regarded him with a somber look.

  “I do not know,” he said. “But unless we discover why he’s become so ill, it is only too possible that your cousin may die.”

  Emma stood. “Die? Is he that ill?”

  Dr. Carrick and Ian looked at each other but neither was forthcoming with an answer.

  “I should like to know what he’s had to eat or drink in the last day, Mrs. McNair,” Albert said.

  Emma thought back. “My cook in London prepared a hamper for us for the train,” she said.

  “Which you all ate?”

  She shook her head. “Juliana had her own food,” she said. “This was just for Bryce and me.”

  “But you both shared the contents?”

  She nodded.

  “Anything else?”

  “Juliana purchased some meats and cheeses in the Inverness station.”

  “Did all of you eat from that?”

  “Only Juliana and I. Bryce limited himself to wine.”

  “Has anyone else in your party become ill?” Albert asked.

  She shook her head. “No one.”

  “You said you thought Bryce was drunk,” Ian said. “Why?”

  “Because he’d finished three bottles of wine,” she said. “One from Inverness, and two from the crate he’d brought with him from London.”

  “Where are the empty bottles?” Ian asked.

  “Still in the carriage,” Emma said.

  A moment later Ian left the room.

  Emma turned to the doctor.

  “Is there not something you can give him? Some medicine to make him well?”

  Dr. Carrick regarded her with kind brown eyes. “We may do more damage until we know, exactly, why he is so ill.”

  She abruptly sat down again.

  He came to stand at her side. “Several diseases can mimic his symptoms, Mrs. McNair. A severe tumor of the bowel, for example.”

  No one had ever mentioned the word “bowel” in her presence. Yet this Scottish physician didn’t look the least disturbed to have been indelicate. His lack of embarrassment spared her the hypocrisy of having to appear offended. After what she’d seen at Chavensworth, she doubted anything would ever shock her again.

  “You should consider yourself very fortunate that you are not sick as well,” he said.

  She looked up at him. “Do you think it is contagious, then?”

  “No, Mrs. McNair,” he said, “I do not.”

  She stared after him as he left the room.

  At the door, Ian hesitated, turning to the woman seated on the bench in the foyer.

  “Are you with Emma’s party?”

  She nodded, and stood. “I am her lady’s maid, sir.”

  “Have you experienced any illness?”

  “I am feeling a little queasy, sir, but other than that I seem to be fine.”

  He nodded, then felt compelled to reassure her. “I don’t believe that Mr. McNair is suffering from anything that might be contagious. You needn’t worry about your health.”

  She so obviously forced a smile to her face that he wanted to congratulate her on the effort.

  “Thank you for saying so, sir,” she said.

  He waved her back down onto the bench and left the house, heading toward Emma’s carriage.

  Ian found the wine bottles on the floor. Withdrawing his handkerchief, he wrapped it around the necks of the bottle before lifting them. Until he knew exactly what they were facing, it wouldn’t be wise to touch the bottles with his bare hands.

  He returned to the house, entering the foyer and crossing to the door of his laboratory.

  Once, the ground floor of Lochlaven had been comprised of a morning room, a drawing room, and a dining room. After his father’s death, Ian had transformed the house to his standards, converting the ground floor primarily to his laboratory and library. He’d left the drawing room intact but removed several dozen items of bric-a-brac, and a great deal of fringe, so that it was more masculine. The better to accommodate those visitors who traveled to Lochlaven to discuss some of his newest discoveries.

  He was well aware that when he married, his wife would probably rearrange the rooms once again to suit her preference. Thankfully, Rebecca had not been overly concerned with the decor, even though he’d caught her looking at several pieces of furniture speculatively. In moments like those he was tempted to ask her thoughts. He knew from pa
st experience, however, that she would only smile and deny that she was giving any consideration at all to rearranging his furniture. Therefore, he’d given up the habit of asking her.

  His laboratory, of which he was so proud, encompassed the entire eastern wing of Lochlaven. Here was where he worked in cooperation with Albert, Rebecca’s father. Although Albert had begun his scientific inquiries as a physician, he’d become fascinated with the disease process itself. From Albert, Ian had learned countless things, and the relationship, begun as a scientific one, matured to become one of friendship and affection.

  Ian passed through the outer room and into the heart of his laboratory. He placed the bottles on one of the long tables arranged against the wall, pouring their contents, each no more than a spoonful of wine, into a series of beakers. One by one he placed a strip of bright copper foil into the beaker as well, and then heated each glass vessel until the contents were almost to the boiling point. With a pair of tongs, he removed the strips of foil, took them to the sink, and washed them first in water, then alcohol, and lastly ether. He needed to allow the strips to dry without heat before he began the next step.

  Returning to his worktable, he pulled up a stool, readied his microscope and a series of slides. Once the foil pieces were dry, he rolled each piece into a scroll, inserting each into a glass tube about four inches long. He positioned a holder in the middle of the tubes and moved to another worktable. Instead of using an oil-based lamp, which rapidly blackened any glass vessel, he changed the wick of one of the spirit lamps and lit it, positioning each tube with the holder over the hottest part of the flame.

  Albert came into the room then, settling himself on the adjoining stool and watching Ian.

  “You’re performing the Reinsch’s test, then?”

  He nodded.

  “Your cousin is very ill, “ Albert said softly. “I do not know if he can survive this.”

  “We’re not even certain what ‘this’ is,” Ian said, not moving his gaze from the heating tube and, inside, the piece of copper foil. Once one tube was heated sufficiently, he moved on to the next.

  Albert only smiled, as if he knew that Ian was willing to lie to himself for the moment.

  A few minutes later the last tube had been heated and the solution oxidized.

  Ian moved to the microscope, opening each of the tubes. Albert took one, and he the other two, smoothing the foil onto a slide.

  The contents of the first bottle proved negative. He glanced over at Albert, who was examining the foil in his own microscope.

  He shook his head.

  The third piece of foil was not so innocuous. In the single eyepiece, Ian could see what he’d suspected but hadn’t wanted to find.

  “What is it?” Albert asked.

  “Octahedral crystals,” Ian said, his voice carefully expressionless.

  “Meaning arsenic.”

  Ian nodded. “Meaning arsenic. Bryce was poisoned.”

  Chapter 20

  As she sat vigil over Bryce, Emma was grateful for the training of her marriage. Being the Ice Queen meant that she could hide her emotions behind a thick wall of reserve. Nothing could touch her. Not even the fact that she was in the one place on earth she shouldn’t be, too close to the one man on earth who fascinated her.

  Dr. Carrick finally returned to the sickroom. He and Mrs. Jenkins spoke together for a few moments, their conversation too low for her to hear. Finally, Dr. Carrick departed, leaving Mrs. Jenkins alone with her and Bryce.

  “We need to undress your husband, Mrs. McNair,” the housekeeper announced, turning to her.

  Emma looked at her, aghast.

  “Mrs. Jenkins, if I may depend upon your discretion,” she said, standing.

  The other woman looked formidable in her dark blue skirt and pristine white starched blouse. A small apron covered the front of her skirt, no doubt for decoration only. At her waist she wore a fabric sash of a lighter blue, and looped through the end of it was an enormous round key chain filled with keys, symbols of her position.

  “What is it, Mrs. McNair?” she said, folding her hands together in front of her, almost as if she were praying.

  “I have only been married for two days, Mrs. Jenkins. My husband and I are strangers to each other.”

  Emma could feel the flush mount from the pit of her stomach, up her chest to flood into her cheeks. She looked away from the other woman, unwilling to see the look of censure on her face.

  “Had circumstances been different,” Emma continued, “I would, of course, assist you. But as it is . . . ” Her words trailed away.

  “Mrs. McNair,” the housekeeper began, “your husband is either going to die shortly, or he is going to live, thanks to the efforts of Dr. Carrick and His Lordship. If he lives, then you are going to have to become accustomed to caring for a man. It’s not necessarily a pleasant occupation, I grant you. But it is a necessary one for each woman to learn. If he dies, wouldn’t you feel better knowing that you had given him as much Christian charity as possible prior to his death?”

  Emma glanced at the housekeeper. “Would it be Christian charity for me to view his naked body?”

  “There is no need to be indelicate,” the housekeeper said.

  Evidently, there was no other choice but to act as Bryce’s wife.

  Emma removed her shawl, folded it tidily, and placed it on the chair she had occupied. Next, she removed her bonnet and put it atop her shawl before unfastening her cuffs. She rolled each sleeve up a couple of turns, before moving to the side of Bryce’s bed and facing Mrs. Jenkins.

  “What shall we do first?” she asked.

  A small smile was playing around Mrs. Jenkins’s lips, almost as if she were amused by Emma’s ignorance.

  If Mrs. Jenkins only knew. She had seen a score of naked men in her life, thanks to Anthony’s debauchery, but she’d never undressed one.

  When Anthony insisted that she participate in his entertainments, it had been as a judge. She’d sat on a thronelike chair elevated upon a stage in Chavensworth’s elegant ballroom. Cushions and fabric were spread across the floor, a perfect backdrop for the nakedness of those who participated in Anthony’s bacchanalias. She was forced to adjudicate whose lovemaking was more energetic, whose body was more beautiful, or which man had the most impressive equipage.

  She was not, thankfully, permitted to participate in the games themselves. She was, after all, the Duchess of Herridge, and expected to be pure and pristine. As innocent as any wife of Anthony’s could be. Her womb was to be inviolate until such time as she gave birth to an heir. God, in His infinite mercy, had protected her by keeping her barren.

  Once a month, however, as if to remind her of her place, Anthony chose to give his audience the sight of him mounting his wife. He called such tableaux the “Rape of the Maenad,” and it was a popular occurrence.

  The rumors had, of course, proliferated. How could they not, given the identity of the players, the Earl of This and the Duke of That and their respective wives or mistresses? The Countess of Maden, once set upon by two men and two women in the middle of the ballroom to her utter delight, had looked right through Emma a week later when the two women encountered each other in London.

  Let Mrs. Jenkins think she was some London miss, unequipped for marriage, instead of who she was, all too aware of the frailties of males, especially those hedonistic creatures like the man spread out on the bed before her.

  It might even be amusing to be considered innocent.

  “The trousers first, I think,” Mrs. Jenkins said. “And then his coat and shirt.”

  Emma realized she shouldn’t have bothered being concerned, since Mrs. Jenkins was unfurling a sheet on top of Bryce and undressing him from beneath it by benefit of touch.

  The entire situation could have been accelerated by simply divesting Bryce of
his clothing and then covering him with the sheet. Instead of suggesting it, Emma remained properly silent.

  Together they removed Bryce’s trousers by each grabbing a section of the waist and easing the garment over his hips, then down each leg. Since Bryce was a tall, muscular man, currently unconscious, the effort was considerable and the task they’d given themselves one not easily accomplished.

  Once the trousers were off, they faced each other across the bed, then began to remove Bryce’s underclothing. The symptoms he’d experienced for the entire day had left his clothing and skin soiled, but Mrs. Jenkins didn’t flinch, merely pulling the garment out from beneath the sheet and dropping it onto the floor.

  Emma sincerely hoped that the housekeeper planned to burn his clothing.

  “You said there were girls trained in nursing?” Emma asked. “Could one of them assist me in washing him? He cannot be expected to remain in this condition.”

  Mrs. Jenkins surveyed the man on the bed.

  “I’ll go and fetch Glenna now,” she said, and left the room.

  As soon as the housekeeper was gone, Emma removed the sheet. Bryce’s coat and shirt were in the same deplorable condition as his trousers and underclothes.

  Emma gripped one cuff with two fingers and focused determinedly on removing Bryce’s coat. Before she was done, Mrs. Jenkins returned, followed by a young girl dressed in an almost identical fashion—dark blue skirt and white blouse. Her dark blue apron was larger, however, and she wore a small blue cap atop her blond hair.

  Surprise kept Emma silent as the housekeeper introduced them.

  “This is Glenna,” she said. “She’ll assist you in bathing your husband, Mrs. McNair.”

  Glenna’s cheeks were flushed as she bobbed her head in greeting.

  “Please ring if there’s anything else I can provide for you,” Mrs. Jenkins said.

  Emma nodded, waiting until the housekeeper left the room before turning to Glenna.

  “You never said you were from Lochlaven.”

  Glenna smiled. “I was just finishing up my stay at the Hospital for Invalid Gentlewomen,” she said. “His Lordship had sent me to Miss Nightingale’s Training School for Nurses.”