One Haunted Evening (Haunted Regency Series Book 1)

by Ava Stone

  “I’m Dr. Alcott,” the young man introduced himself. “I am not sure if you recall meeting previously, Mr. Chetwey. It has been a number of years.”

  He glanced around the room. Had he imagined the pretty miss? “Where is the young woman?” His mouth and throat were dry. He licked his lips but there was no moisture to be had.

  “Woman?” the doctor questioned.

  “The one who was here earlier?”

  The doctor’s eyes brightened and he offered an easy smile. “My sister, I understand she gave you powder to help you rest.”

  Blake wanted to argue that he wasn’t speaking of the man’s sister, but perhaps the doctor didn’t know the servants in the castle.

  Dr. Alcott picked up Blake’s wrist as if checking his pulse. Clearly he had one or he wouldn’t be awake and speaking with the man.

  He let Blake’s hand rest against the blankets once again and then pulled a chair to the side of the bed and sat. “I understand you have malaria.”

  “I contracted it last year while in Barbados.”

  “How many reoccurrences have you suffered?”

  Blake closed his eyes to think. “Three,” He opened them again. “maybe four.”

  The doctor simply nodded and wrote something in a small notebook. “What are your usual symptoms?”

  “Headaches, body pain, chills, fever.”

  “Vomiting?”

  His stomach churned again. He had forgotten that particular part of the ailment for a moment. He clenched his jaw and nodded. Perhaps if he willed it away, his stomach would calm.

  “I’ve had little experience with malaria.”

  Little was better than none.

  Dr. Alcott colored. “Actually, I’ve no experience with the disease, only what bit I have read.”

  He probably didn’t have much experience shaving either so why should the doctor have enough training to treat a malaria patient, especially in Cumberland? But he was all they had, so perhaps Blake and the doctor could learn together. “I’ve had success with cinchona bark.” Not that it helped much since he had not replenished his supply following the last episode.

  The doctor grimaced and nodded at the same time. “That is what I have learned from my studies. However, I have none of the bark, nor does the apothecary in Ravenglass.”

  “I assumed as much.”

  “My books are limited on the topic but they offer other options used in the past.”

  Hope surged in Blake’s chest. Was there an alternate treatment he did not know about? With the way he felt at the moment, he would be willing to try any medication the doctor offered.

  “Though I hate to use it in my practice, sometimes I find it is necessary and the only treatment that will help.”

  That hope deflated since Dr. Alcott would only be guessing at what could treat his condition. “What do you suggest?” Blake finally asked.

  “Bloodletting,” Dr. Alcott answered grimly.

  Blake’s blood ran cold at the idea. There was no way in hell he was going to let this young man, doctor or not, cut open a vein in his arm. “I would rather we just let this episode run its course, then.”

  Dr. Alcott stiffened and frowned. “We cannot. There is no guarantee you will survive it.”

  “I lived through the others,” Blake reminded him.

  “That does not mean you will live through this one.” He leaned forward and pressed a thumb against Blake’s cheek and released it. He did the same to the other and then pulled down the lower lids to look into his eyes. “Have you been jaundiced before?”

  His eyebrows drew together. “Jaundiced?”

  “Has your skin turned yellow?” he clarified.

  Blake didn’t have an answer for that. It had not been mentioned to him before, but he had also been too ill to remember much from those episodes. Surely he would remember if his skin turned yellow.

  “That is my greatest concern at the moment.”

  If he were turning yellow, Blake would be concerned too. But bleeding into a bowl was not the answer. There had to be another option.

  “We need to stimulate the circulation and release the bad humors,” the doctor continued as he stood and opened the black bag he had brought with him.

  Blake’s heartbeat increased. “Bloodletting is not the alternative.” More sweat dampened his brow and nightshirt.

  Dr. Alcott shook his head as he drew out a small box. “I’m afraid it is the only one I know of.”

  “Then return to your blasted books and read further.”

  The doctor sighed as he strolled across the room to pick up a bowl on the dresser. “It is not my first choice, but it is necessary.”

  If he had the strength, Blake would jump from the bed and run from the room. Instead, he tucked his arms beneath the blankets so Dr. Alcott could not get to them. It was a childish gesture but he was not going to willingly present his arm so that man could cut into it.

  Dr. Alcott eyed the blanket that hid Blake’s arms, but he didn’t say anything until he sat down again.

  “I’m a careful man, Mr. Chetwey. And I’ve done this many times without ever losing a patient.”

  Blake held still, his arms still tucked safely beneath the blanket.

  “Shall I call one of your friends? Perhaps they’ll help you see reason.”

  Perchance they would save him from the blade.

  On second thought, they would probably hold him down. Blake was unable to forget the concern Thorn had shown earlier. So much so he’d even failed to flirt with the lovely Miss Alcott. Blake didn’t want them in here. He wouldn’t be able to live down the humiliation that a grown man had to be restrained so that the doctor could treat him.

  Slowly, he pulled his arm from beneath the covers. People had been bled for decades and survived. He would too. And it just might work.

  “Very good.” Dr. Alcott took a seat, placed the bowl beneath Blake’s arm and withdrew the blade.

  Blake gritted his teeth. Hopefully, this would be over soon.

  Alastair expected for her to turn on him in a rage, but he never could have anticipated how lovely she’d look when provoked. Goodness, she was like a mythological fury with that angelic face harboring azure eyes that nearly flamed with frustration.

  She pointed a slender finger at his face. “I don’t know who you think you are to dictate my life, but I’ll not have it. I don’t even let my brother tell me what to do, I’m not about to allow a stranger to do so.”

  A rather delightful idea popped into his head at that moment, bringing a smirk to his face that might get him slapped, but he couldn’t stop it.

  “You’re right, Miss Alcott.”

  She opened her mouth, presumably to censure him again, but then shut it promptly. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I said you’re right.” He stepped toward the open door and held onto the handle with one hand while gesturing to the outside with the other. “Who am I to keep you here against your wishes? I’m sure you have much to do, what with your business and all. And I’m certain Ravenglass is a perfectly safe town, anyway.”

  Miss Alcott narrowed her eyes at him, causing her plump cheeks to shift upward in the most adorable manner. “What made you change your mind?” she asked, with not just a hint of skepticism in her tone.

  He gestured into the air. “Your little speech just then, of course. Now go on. Don’t let me keep you.”

  She still didn’t quite believe him, that much was obvious in the way she studied his face, waiting for him to announce the catch. But at long last, she stepped through the door.

  “Well, thank you,” she said from the stoop before descending the steps.

  Alastair bowed. “Good day, Miss Alcott.”

  Brighid balanced the tray on her hip while she opened the door to Chetwey’s chamber with her free hand. Her heart stopped at the sight of Dr. Alcott ready to cut into Blake’s arm and she nearly dropped the tray. “Are you blooming mad?”

  At the same moment, the blade flew out of Dr. Al
cott’s hand and toward her. Brighid ducked as it thudded into the wall. Heart hammering in her chest, she stood frozen in her spot.

  The two men stared past her with wide, surprised eyes at the blade sticking out of the wall.

  Doctor Alcott pushed his fingers through his hair before looking to Chetwey. “What happened?”

  “You threw a blade at me.” Brighid stepped further into the room, eyeing them both with suspicion. “That is what happened.”

  “No, he didn’t,” Chetwey insisted. “He was about to cut into my arm when it flew from his hand.”

  Dr. Alcott glanced down, turning his hand over and over. “There was a sudden cold breeze and then it was yanked from my grip.”

  She stilled, and looked between the two. They were not making this up. Dr. Alcott was a bit pale, as was Chetwey, though she had expected him to be. They were clearly disturbed by what had just occurred—almost as disturbed as she was.

  Brighid shivered and glanced about the room. She had heard ghosts haunted Marisdùn, but she had never encountered one during her many visits. “Thank you,” she said to no one in particular.

  “Who are you thanking?” Chetwey asked.

  “The ghost,” Brighid announced as she came toward the bed.

  “Ghost,” Chetwey scoffed. “I am sure there is a reasonable explanation.”

  “I am not so certain,” Dr. Alcott mumbled as he walked to pull the blade from the wall. He studied it, and held it in his hand as if testing the weight. “Baffling.”

  “What are you doing here, Brighid?”

  Dr. Alcott’s head jerked up. “Ah, I was wondering if you knew one another.”

  “We do!” Brighid answered brightly.

  “She’s the witch who lives in the woods.”

  “I’m no witch, Blake Chetwey,” Brighid argued. Each time he called her that name there was a little stab of pain to her heart.

  Dr. Alcott chuckled and came forward.

  “What would you call someone who believes in ghosts and mixes up concoctions?” Blake demanded of Dr. Alcott.

  “An herbalist or healer, perhaps.”

  At least Dr. Alcott respected her. It was more than she could say for her sometimes neighbor. Though, if given a choice, she would prefer to have the approval of Blake Chetwey.

  Dr. Alcott still held the blade as he approached the bed, but Brighid placed herself between him and Chetwey. “You aren’t going to try and bleed him again, are you?”

  He furrowed his brow. “I have little choice…and little time,” he said, looking about the room. Did he also suspect there was a ghost in their presence? His hand shook, unable to hold the blade still. He should be frightened, but not from a ghost. If he came near Chetwey with that blade again, Brighid would do him harm.

  “Bloodletting rarely heals.” She turned from him and set the tray on a small table beneath a window. “Besides, are you sure you want to risk it again?” She turned a smiled at the doctor. “This time the ghost might aim the blade at you.”

  He shuddered, but gripped the handle tighter. “What would you suggest, Miss Glace?”

  “Tea.” She poured the steaming liquid into a cup. The leaves had steeped long enough.

  Dr. Alcott’s eyebrows drew together. “What type of tea?”

  “I am not sure I wish to drink anything you prepared.” Chetwey eyed her and the teacup with concern.

  “Would you rather I leave and let him bleed you?”

  Chetwey glowered at her for a moment. “Bring it here.”

  “Aren’t we out of sorts today?” She glided over to him. Despite his opinion of her, Brighid was determined to see him recovered.

  “Just one moment, Miss Glace.” The doctor stepped between her and the bed. “I will determine what is best after I know what is in the tea.”

  The small case that had been sitting on the bedside table that held the items Dr. Alcott needed for a bloodletting clattered to the floor. Nobody had touched it, nor was there an open window or breeze in the room.

  All three of them stared at it. A moment later Brighid glanced up at Dr. Alcott. “Wormwood.” She stepped past him but he gently grasped her arm.

  Brighid sighed. “It is an Artemisia and has been used for centuries to treat this condition.”

  He frowned. “I believe I may have read a reference or two.”

  She sighed. “Dr. Alcott, you really should not discount herbals that have a successful history.”

  He sucked in a deep breath through his nose, but he held his silence.

  “Besides, as we are at Marisdùn and there is clearly someone who does not wish you to bleed Chetwey, we should do things my way.”

  Dr. Alcott glanced about the room. “I suppose you are correct…this time.” He bent to pick up the small case.

  “Of course I am,” Brighid smiled sweetly.

  Chetwey eyed her with suspicion. “Are you certain this won’t kill me?”

  “Blake Chetwey, if I wished to do you harm, I would have found a way already.” She settled on the bed beside him. “However, do not tempt me to reconsider.”

  Chetwey sniffed at the tea.

  “It is for drinking,” she chastised.

  With a frown, Chetwey pushed up on his elbows, cringing as if in pain, but allowed Brighid to bring the cup to his lips. He drank until it was gone and then fell back against the pillows, an exhausted sigh escaping from his lips.

  “Well, I suppose we will see what happens now,” Dr. Alcott announced as he pushed the case holding the bloodletting tools back into his black bag.

  A cool breeze swept through the room and the bed curtain ruffled in the wind before everything stilled again.

  Dr. Alcott cleared his throat. “I believe I will take my leave.” With that he rushed toward the door and exited the room.

  Brighid couldn’t help but chuckle.

  Chetwey drew the covers up to his chin. “This castle is drafty.”

  She hitched a brow. “That wasn’t a draft.”

  He narrowed his eyes on her. “Don’t start with that ghost business.”

  “One would think after what your brother-in-law experienced you would be more willing to believe.” She brushed a hand against his brow. “Someday, Blake Chetwey, you will believe.”

  Daphne felt like running, now she was finally free of that frustrating situation. The high-handed men in combination with trying to treat a patient she was not skilled enough to treat, had set her nerves on edge something fierce. What was she thinking, going there in the first place? Graham wasn’t so far behind her—she could have waited. Although, she’d had no way of knowing when he’d come along.

  She came to the end of the drive and set her feet along the main road back to the village. A quick glance upward told her she might want to make quick work of getting back home. The skies loomed gray and ominous above her, they would surely open up any moment now.

  Just as she picked up her pace, the loud crack of a snapping twig came from behind her. She whirled around, only to find Lord Wolverly a mere twenty paces behind her. She stared incredulously at him as he stared back at her with an amused smirk upon his face.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, unable to hide her disbelief at the situation.

  He shrugged with all the nonchalance of a London cur. “Oh, nothing. Just going for a stroll.”

  Daphne clamped her lips together in a straight line. The boor. He meant to play games with her, all the while maintaining the upper hand. “I told you,” she bit out, “that I do not need an escort.”

  “Oh, I’m not escorting you,” he called back, his tone irritatingly lighthearted. “I’m simply taking in the fresh air.” He made a great show of taking a deep breath, and then letting it go on a long sigh. “So fresh. So different from London, what with all our stoves and hordes of people and—”

  “Will you please leave me be?” she interrupted, unwilling to hear him ramble on about city life.

  His shoulders slumped and he seemed to drop the pretense with them.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Miss Alcott.”

  Of course he can’t. She folded her arms petulantly across her chest. “And why not?”

  He drew closer, and as he did, Daphne did her best to keep her eyes on his face, even though she was drawn inexplicably to his rather tight buckskin trousers. She could practically see the muscles moving beneath them; she imagined them all strong and covered in dark hair. She thought he must seat a horse rather nicely with those legs, gripping the sides of the beast with—

  “Miss Alcott,” he said, coming up short right in front of her and putting an abrupt end to her little fantasy. “It is not my intention to come across as autocratic. I hardly know you, after all, and to be truthful, I think you’re quite a lovely girl.”

  That was not at all what she expected him to say. She stared back at him dumbfounded; not a single word would form on her tongue.

  “You must allow me to see you home, Miss Alcott, no matter how safe this town might be. Should anything ever happen to you…well, I would blame myself.”

  There he went again, trying to appeal to her soft side. Turning the tables to make her feel bad for him, just as he’d done regarding the driver before. Blasted man.

  “Besides,” he said, before she had time to reply. “I was hoping to buy a jar of that famous rum butter from you.”

  Blast him! She wasn’t about to turn down money, even from a frustrating prig like Lord Wolverly.

  She sucked in a deep breath and studied him a moment before finally agreeing. “Fine.”

  “Fine?” His thick eyebrows disappeared under his beaver hat.

  “Yes, fine. You may see me home. But we must hurry. I still have deliveries to make this afternoon.” She started to walk and then turned abruptly, her finger pointed straight at him. “And, no, you may not accompany me on my deliveries.”

  He held up his hands. “I wouldn’t dare have asked, Miss Alcott.”

  Daphne rolled her eyes, whirled around again, and set the brisk pace. They walked in silence for a few moments before he spoke again.

  “How long?”