All of a sudden, Evan took her arm above her head and spun her. She began to twirl away from him like a ballerina, spinning and spinning in her wet underclothes which clung to her form so closely.
She closed her eyes and let herself spin. She felt dizzy and overwhelmed. She could feel the wind whipping past her and the way the salt on her skin made it dry.
She opened her eyes, and suddenly it wasn’t Evan who was standing in front of her but her sweet Owen. He was younger in this vision, only ten-and-eight or so. He stood with one arm behind his back and the other hand extended, held out for her to take.
When she took it, they began to waltz. She could hear the music in her head. The dance became closer and more intimate until finally, Owen kissed her.
She heaved in a deep breath and startled awake.
Her room was dark when she opened her eyes. She sat up and breathed in deeply. She realized her clothes were indeed soaked through with sweat from a fever that must have come on in the night.
Her mouth was dry and her head felt like it was in the blacksmith’s vice, being squeezed so very tightly. There was a great pressure behind her eyes and she felt dizzy. Her throat seemed closed so tightly she was gasping for breath.
She closed her arms around her pillow and buried her face in its softness, hoping for the feeling to pass.
Out of the corner of her eye, in her very room, she could still see them both—Evan and Owen—each extending a hand for her to dance.
She leaned over the side of her bed and vomited.
* * *
Dr. Crawling was a severe gentleman who was only skin and bones himself. He had incredibly large grey eyebrows that made him look like an owl, and his suit was pressed so neatly it was as if his clothes were painted onto him. He had grey eyes that narrowed when they looked at her as if trying to decipher whether she had influenza or had brought back the plague.
He was not the only one in the room. Her father sat in a chair opposite the end of her bed and Miss Bennet sat at her side, her expression a picture of worry.
Miss Bennet and her father stayed quiet while the doctor completed his examinations.
“Tell me, Lady Phoebe, have you vomited?”
“Several times, Doctor.”
“Good. This will open the gullet and unload the lungs.” He looked across to Miss Bennet and advised her. “Encourage the production of bile. It has a cleansing effect.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
“If she does not vomit again today, then give her a dose of this Calomel.” He produced a vial of mercury chloride and left it on the bedside table.
Phoebe looked at it with suspicion. She had never been sick a day in her life and she did not much enjoy it. The doctor seemed to her most invasive and she did not see the need for such a fuss by everyone present.
Even her father was in the room. It disconcerted her, making her imagine that her condition was worse than she believed. Certainly, she felt as ill as ever she had, trembling with fever and clammy with cold perspiration, but she did not feel her condition called for such intense scrutiny.
“Her throat is ulcerated and spectacularly swollen,” Dr. Crawling continued. “She must gargle once an hour. Warm water and vinegar will do the trick. We must also induce perspiration.”
As he said this, he reached for Phoebe’s cover and ensured it was pulled over her shoulder and up to her neck. He addressed Miss Bennet curtly. “A second cover or blanket, please.”
He looked over Phoebe once more and nodded slowly. “A sure case of scarlet fever if ever I saw one.”
Miss Bennet gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. “Scarlet fever? My goodness, isn’t that quite dangerous?”
“Quite. However, if the proper precautions are taken we can avoid any fatality. I advise that she is accompanied at all times. She will require a period of intubation to protect herself and others.
“If and when she is well again, all her bedding and clothes will need to be burned.”
The doctor finished preparing medications for Phoebe and left them with instructions for Miss Bennet. He left promptly after and Phoebe felt her resolve weakening.
She turned to Miss Bennet in terror. “Scarlet fever? However could I have caught such a thing?”
Miss Bennet bristled. “It must be that flower sent to you by Lord Huxley. Certainly, nobody here has shown any signs of infection.”
“Several men on my fleet have been afflicted,” Lord Wycliff corrected her. “I didn’t imagine it might return with me home. All men who showed sign of the disease were promptly instructed to quarantine themselves at home.”
Phoebe tried to speak but her throat was so swollen she could only muster a weak cough before she forced herself to swallow past her enlarged glands and found her voice. “And what of your men, Father? Have they survived?”
His face darkened. “We have resources here not available to all, Phoebe. Trust me, Daughter, all will be well.”
“Miss Bennet.” He turned to her. “I entrust you with Phoebe’s care. I will employ a nurse to assist you. If there are any signs of decline, I bid you to call for me at once. Without exception.”
Miss Bennet bowed her head. “Of course, My Lord. I will not leave her side.”
Lord Wycliff crossed the room and in a rare show of affection, he kissed Phoebe’s forehead.
“You do everything Miss Bennet tells you. Before the month is out, it will be as if you were never ill. I will have your books and drawings sent to you, and I will ask that your favorite dishes are prepared.”
Phoebe smiled. “You don’t know my favorite dishes.”
“Of course I do. Scones with butter and jam, and chestnut soup.” He offered her a kindly smile. “Perhaps I will even make use of the ice house for the first time. With a sore throat such as yours, I’m sure ice cream will be a wonderful treat.”
She squeezed her father’s hand in gratitude and fell back onto her pillows feeling more at ease. As ill as she was, she trusted she was in good hands. Her father would do anything for her, and Miss Bennet was unshakably loyal.
After her father had left the room, only Phoebe and Miss Bennet remained.
Phoebe yawned and turned her pillow so she might rest her hot cheek against the coolness of the other side. She caught sight of herself in her dressing table mirror as she turned and saw she was quite the mess.
Her hair clung in tendrils to the dampness of her forehead and temples and her skin. Her cheeks were flushed bright red but there were dark circles under her eyes.
“Oh Miss Bennet,” she said, “I believed I simply had a mild fever. Now I shall be trapped in this room for heaven knows how long.”
“Better you rest and recover than perish doing anything other than what the doctor says.”
“Perish…” Phoebe grimaced. “Nobody shall be perishing any time soon, Miss Bennet.”
“Of course not. I must say, Miss Phoebe, I am quite proud of your courage in the face of this illness.”
“It requires no courage to have a sore throat. Although I shall tell you this—” She picked up the vial of Calomel. “—I shall not be forcing myself to vomit.”
“It’s the doctor’s orders, Miss Phoebe.”
“The Doctor appeared as if he has purged every meal he has eaten in the last fifty years. There was nothing to him!”
Miss Bennet giggled. “He was rather a lean gentleman, wasn’t he?”
“Lean is an understatement. My grandfather’s cane was thicker than he.”
“I see the fever has not quelled your sense of humor in the slightest.”
“Oh, what is there to do but laugh, Miss Bennet? I have learned this since the Boltmon affair.”
“The Boltmon affair?”
“Evan, Owen, one must accept one’s fate and laugh at her own naivety in any other fantasy she may have allowed her mind to engage in.”
“There is no need to think of such things now, my dear. You’re quite ill.”
“I should like to write to
Evan.”
“You would?”
Phoebe smiled. “He has the most beautiful manner of writing. A true poet at heart.”
“He writes you poetry?”
“His prose is more beautiful than poetry could ever be.” She burrowed back into her nest of pillows and blankets and smiled at the thought of him. “He speaks of stars and seas and longing. When I turned eighteen last week, he wrote pages about the beauty of the lady I have become, how I have blossomed like the summer rose.”
Miss Bennet crossed her hands over her lap and smiled longingly. “How beautiful.”
“We will be married when he returns, so it is imperative I beat this fever.”
“You shall, Miss Phoebe. If I know you at all, you will recover in half the time of any other person. You’ve always been incredibly resilient.”
“I do hope you are right. I don’t want there to be any delay in marrying Evan. The way he expressed himself prior to leaving and his letters since have left me completely enchanted by him. I miss him dearly and dream of how wonderful it will be to have him with me again at last.”
“And Lord Boltmon?”
“I have not seen Lord Boltmon in the six months since Evan’s voyage began.”
“Thank heavens for that, My Lady. I am glad he has allowed you to move on.”
If only Miss Bennet knew what Owen had confessed at the ball. “Yes. It was decent of him to step down. He knows his brother and I have always been promised to one another. And it’s a promise I intend to keep.”
Chapter 10
Lady Ann threw her head back and laughed in a manner that sounded like a patient gargling salts.
Owen and Lady Ann were at a dinner party hosted by Lady Ann’s father, The Duke of Maythorpe and his wife, Her Grace, The Duchess of Maythorpe.
It was an extravagant affair—although Owen would expect nothing less of a Duke trying to impress the suitor of his only unmarried daughter.
He’d invited a whole host of guests for the occasion, including the Marquess and Marchioness of Penceby, the Lord Phillip Westmore and his wife, the Lady Edith Westmore, and Roger and his fiancée, Lady Amelia Sterling, the daughter of the Earl of Westbank.
Owen was sitting at the right hand of the Duke of Maythorpe as his guest of honor. Beside him sat Lady Ann, dressed in a pale-yellow dress with a long train atop silk underskirts, high waistline, and long fitted sleeves. The color did nothing for her complexion; she seemed paler still than she had the last three occasions on which they had courted, like a pool of spilled cream left to sour.
He was glad that Roger was seated opposite him, or else he might have fallen asleep at the sound of Lady Ann’s relentless drivel. She spoke almost constantly of who was engaged to whom, and which scandal was latest to tantalize society. She was a dedicated gossip and a committed bore.
“I’ve heard it said that Lord Fayble was seen with Lady Evelyn unaccompanied,” she said the words as if she were horrified but her expression was one of glee. “Could you imagine such a thing?”
Owen thought of Phoebe and all the times they had spent together as children when nobody was watching. They used to sneak away into the gardens, into one of Phoebe’s hidden places in the grounds to while away the hours in conversation and the innocent friendship of youth.
He tried to recall when things first began to change. He supposed Phoebe had been around fourteen or fifteen years of age when she began to become more aware of the eyes that were on her and started to avoid time spent alone.
Now he missed her. He longed for the way things used to be when they were unafraid to spend time alone. For two children to be caught unaccompanied is frowned upon, but for two adults of marrying age to be caught alone is another thing entirely. Society, as much as it tried to avert its gaze from sexual desire, was aware that men and women alone were prone to certain intimacies.
Lady Ann stared at Owen. “Lord Boltmon? Did you hear me? Unaccompanied!”
“I’m shocked.”
His simple acknowledgment was enough for Lady Ann. She continued into another long monologue about some other affair of somebody or another while he allowed his attention to wander.
Across the table from him, Roger was looking at him with disappointment in his expression. Surely it was evident that Owen was miserable in Lady Ann’s company and Roger was well aware of his friend’s ennui.
He spoke across Lady Ann to get Owen’s attention.
“Lord Boltmon, tell me about your studies. Are they going well?”
“Quite well, thank you.” Owen circled his spoon around his bowl of soup, dreading the four or more courses that would follow. “There is much of interest to me. Perhaps even more so than I imagined.”
“That is good to hear. I was uncertain which course you would follow when you decided to join the military.”
Lady Ann bristled in her seat beside Owen. “I quite agree, Lord Saxby. I couldn’t comprehend why a gentleman in full physical health and in his prime should shy away from the army.”
“As I explained to you, my Dear Lady, I found my calling elsewhere.”
She glanced across at Roger with a withering look in her eye. “Lord Boltmon fancies himself as a savior to the poor, and a redeemer of the wicked.”
“I simply hold the strong belief that children should not be sentenced as adults for trivial misdemeanors, as I believe that the poor should not be treated with any less favor in a court of law than the wealthy.”
“There are wars to be won overseas, but Lord Boltmon only occupies himself with the moral battles of our time.”
“Someone ought to, My Lady. Otherwise what is there to separate us from the beasts?”
Roger decided to play devil’s advocate. “But then who will defend our country’s borders?”
“You encouraged me as strongly as anyone to pursue law. You said I had an innate sense of justice.”
Raising his glass, Roger acknowledged Owen. “You are right, my friend. This I truly believe.”
Lady Ann offered an exaggerated sigh. “I am ever more fearful that it is men who are becoming the weaker sex.”
Owen laughed loudly. “Are you considering joining the frontline, My Lady? I don’t see any reason why you should not. You could be a trailblazer for ladies everywhere.”
“A lady’s place is in the home. It is our duty to protect and raise the nation’s children.”
“A most noble pursuit,” Owen’s voice was thick with sarcasm.
Roger bowed his head to hide a smile while Lady Ann scowled.
“Your contempt is quite unnecessary, My Lord. I believe the greater part of society would agree that I am quite right.”
“I don’t disagree. I’m sure they would.”
“Speaking of the weaker sex, I wonder if you have heard that my sister is quite ill?” Roger said.
Owen felt his stomach tense and his blood run cold. “Lady Phoebe? How so?”
“Scarlet fever.”
“That can be fatal, can it not?”
“Not for our Phoebe. She is not one to give into weakness—physical or otherwise.”
The conversation progressed onto other things, but Owen could not remove Phoebe from his mind, so much so that he excused himself from the dinner.
“My Lord Duke, please accept my sincerest apologies but I must leave immediately. I am afraid I have become quite unwell all of a sudden.”
He didn’t wait to exchange any further pleasantries with the Duke, Duchess, or the Lady Ann. He stood from the table, his soup still untouched, and fled from the room.
Roger excused himself and followed him into the foyer. “Owen! I can’t believe that you are leaving this dinner simply because I’ve told you my sister is ill.”
“I’m sorry, Roger, I must go. Our last conversation was an unpleasant one. Should Phoebe take a turn for the worse, I would never be able to live with myself if the words I spoke last to her were the final words she ever heard from me.”
“She is not on her deathbed.”
>
“Fevers can cause rapid decline without warning. You know that as well as I. We were both acquainted with Edward, who died in childhood.”
“Children are more susceptible to these things.”
“I shan’t take any chances on leaving an apology too late.”
“Must you leave before dinner is done? Your behavior is far from subtle and it is embarrassing for myself and all present.”
Owen fixed him with a blank stare. “I don’t understand, My Lord. I’ve suddenly taken ill.”
An Immoral Dilemma For The Scandalous Lady (Steamy Historical Romance) Page 8