Eleanor stopped him. “Really,” she huffed. “Don’t hover, Summerton. It’s unattractive.”
“Of course, you’re right.” He sighed and joined his aunt.
Caroline was safe and sound, and he’d do best to leave her to the ladies to fuss.
CHAPTER 22 ~ Potions
How does one communicate without a voice?
Hilda prodded and poked, and barked orders at the maids until they were running in circles.
Oddly enough, Mrs. Beechum’s earlier disapproval evaporated, and she proved Caroline’s only ally. She poured cupfuls of her scented water over Caroline’s aching body. The soothing textured of the salted water, sloshing about, running over her, soothed her to doze in the warm bath. Gentle as could be, she worked the knots from Caroline’s hair as she brushed it from the very bottom, up to the top. Hilda gave Mrs. Beechum an unguent, to work into Carolyn’s scalp. It burned and soothed, all in one.
In that hour—or two, or however long it lasted—Caroline loved the housekeeper like a babe to its mother. But Hilda stopped the care with abrupt efficiency, sending Mrs. Beechum off, telling her they didn’t need two nurses.
She had Caroline stand, cold and shaking, naked beside the tub as she pressed every bruise, pulled apart every wound, inspecting them.
Who looks deep into wounds?
In the end, she’d used ointments and unguents on every sore before allowing the maids to drop a night rail over her head.
“Did he have his way or are you still a virgin?”
The maids had ducked their heads, distancing themselves from the question.
Caroline shook her head.
“He didn’t have you, or you’re not a virgin?” Hilda pressed.
It wasn’t worth answering. Caroline ignored her and walked to the bed.
“You’ll need your draught,” she said, flicking her hand toward one of the maids. “Did you prepare it, like I said?”
The younger maid nodded, hands behind her back, standing as far from the apothecary box as possible.
“Well, give it to her then,” Hilda prodded.
The girl was young, no doubt brought in from the village with little experience serving. Having run her father’s household, Caroline knew the sort, just as she knew exactly why the maid was in the room. Mrs. Beechum would have brought her to help with any manual chores, filling the bath, carrying towels. It would have been a privilege just to be there.
She would not be asked to do anything that required skill and, most definitely, should not have been required to deal directly with her employers. She should aim to be invisible.
Worse, for the poor girl, Caroline was about to refuse the draught. No doubt that brew was laudanum.
She would not have it. Roger was out there, somewhere. She refused to be made vulnerable by drinking something that would put her in a stupor.
Hilda shoved the girl who was clearly terrified, but it appeared more afraid of Hilda than of Caroline. She took the glass and carried it to the bed where Caroline was sitting up.
Caroline shook her head. The lass put it on the table, for Caroline to take if she wanted it.
“Give it to her,” Hilda demanded.
Caroline pressed her lips together, shaking her head.
“Make her drink it.”
Both the maids and Caroline looked at Hilda as though she were mad. “You need to drink it.” Hilda told her.
Caroline shook her head again, in no uncertain terms.
Hilda conferred with the girls, low enough that Caroline couldn’t hear.
In truth, Caroline was done in, could easily fall asleep without help if Mrs. Beechum left her alone. She felt safe with that. A normal sleep she could wake from and be alert. But not the sort of sleep draughts produced.
She didn’t feel safe enough, not here, without someone she trusted. Even Mrs. Beechum, who’d become a mother figure to her.
Hilda crossed to the bed. “You need to take the draught,” was her only warning before she pushed Caroline back, her beefy arm pressing down on Caroline’s throat. Startled by the pain, by the bullying, Caroline fell back gasping.
Hilda poured the thick brew into her mouth. Caroline spit it out, sputtered and spewed, spraying the woman with a gush of the drink. She thought the woman would hit her; she raised her fist, as if to do just that, but one of the maids gasped, “No!” and Hilda eased back.
Caroline jerked her head toward the door, signaling a maid to go to Summerton, but Hilda stopped her.
“It’s a’right, you don’t need ta go getting the duke.” She stepped back, “Leastwise, not before cleaning her up.”
This the maids seemed to understand, scurrying about changing Caroline into a dressing gown, helping Caroline to a chair, getting clean linens, changing the bed and carrying the dirty piles of laundery out of the room.
Wozy, senses dulled from the little bit of draught she hadn’t been able to spit out, Caroline fought to stay awake, not to fall out of the chair. Drawn by the maids leaving, Caroline looked at the door, watched it shimmer and sway.
She couldn’t understand what Hilda was doing, wrapping a sash around Caroline, when she already had a sash.
“There we go,” Hilda tightened the sash, tying Caroline to the chair.
I won’t fall over, Caroline wanted to explain but couldn’t speak.
Confusion turned to fear when Hilda pinched her nose shut. Caroline tried to kick, tried to pull free but the sash had tied her into a heavy chair. Nothing budged.
When she couldn’t hold her breath any longer, Caroline tried breathing through clenched teeth, willing the maids to return, for Summerton to check on her, for anything.
Hilda poured the bitter, bitter brew into Caroline’s mouth.
Even then, much of it poured out, to stream down her chin . Neither won, nor lost, that battle.
Hilda dressed Caroline in a fresh nightrail before the maids returned. As if, once she could speak, Caroline would keep her bullying a secret. As if she were a child, too intimidated to tell anyone what had happened.
Caroline would tell, once her voice was back. Barring that, she would write it as a note. She would let Summerton know how badly she’d been treated. He would champion her.
“You will sleep now, which is what you need. And this…” She roughly slapped a poultice around her neck. “Doctor would expect I do that.”
Many a healer was odd. But they didn’t set out to increase the damage. This grizzled, gray-haired, heavy-eyed healer appeared set on that.
Somehow, Caroline had to get the maids to understand, or the duke or Lady Eleanor. She needed protection.
Hilda untied the sash as the maids returned. Caroline pleaded with her eyes, trying to stand, but her legs gave way as her eyes drooped.
“Here, your grace, let me help you.” The older maid came, to help Caroline to the bed. Caroline tried to squeeze her shoulder, to request help, but she couldn’t. All power had left her, her strength melting away.
The other maid had pulled the sheets back. They both helped Caroline, who was no longer capable of helping herself, onto the bed.
“You’ll be right as rain,” the one said, tucking her in.
“The duke’s just outside your room, he’s that concerned for you,” the other whispered.
Outside her room? Too far away.
She did not want to sleep.
The pain leeched out of her. Thoughts washed away, a tumble of them caught in a tide. She tried to grasp them, ran after them in distorted dreams, caught by ugly words, black and sticky questions wrapping around her ankles.
A gruesome mass rose up out of a tomb and hovered over her, hands outstretched. She tried to scream, but pain lanced through her, shuddering her awake.
Caroline opened her eyes, disoriented. Her chamber was filled with nightmare shapes melting and shifting around her.
Laudanum.
Everything was alive, swaying, but she refused to allow fear its sway. She’d been given a sleeping draught, th
at’s all it was and she managed to spill more than she drank.
She rolled to her side. She would stand and find her legs.
She grabbed the bedside table, clutched the lace doily.
“No, no, you must rest.” The bully witch forced her over onto her back, and then bustled back to her box of horrid poisons.
All of it so slow, but Caroline kept her eyes on the bedside table, her fingers tangled in the lacy table cover.
“Shhhh,” Caroline warned the candlesticks dancing in a little candelabra, crying to be lit, and their companions, the jug and glass. They would help her escape, but they mustn’t tell the witch.
She pulled, the lacy doily still clutched in her fingers, shifting the little candelabra, the jug, and the glass.
She watched them cascade to the floor and felt herself fall with them, deep into a dream.
***
She knew who he was. Or had known. She wasn’t alive. Not any more.
Except he couldn’t be sure.
He’d not felt death with her. Missing the ending was far worse than the interruption of amorous congress. One merely engaged the body, while the other—killing with one’s bare hands—fed his very being.
Power.
Every life taken gave him more power.
This missed opportunity enraged him.
He had to get back there. Feel her lifeless body, see those bulging, glazed eyes and knowing that he was the last thing to be seen with them. Her last moments focused on him, and him alone. Finish her.
Seething anger stopped him from running. He was the ambassador. No one crossed him. He toyed with others, played with their innocence, and chuckled at their confusion when his darker self surfaced.
He studied his long, narrow hands. How deceptive that they appeared so delicate, almost feminine. She’d scratched his hands.
He’d go back. Imagined the fear in her eyes if she lived. He would take his time destroying her, watching her life ebb away.
Nostrils flaring, he looked back. He’d easily outdistanced the men, even after fighting the heiress, but his lead would not last for long. That baying hound would not give up.
He hated dogs almost as much as he hated cats. In truth, he hated all animals, especially the human sort. He felt in his pocket, found the packet of rat poison he’d meant to feed to the reporter, and sprinkled it along his path. He stepped in it, and reached down to smear it into the hem of his pants.
Let that scent get up the bastard hound’s nose.
***
Summerton charged into the duchess’ bedchamber, summoned by an almighty crash, eerily similar to his wedding night.
“It’s nothing, your grace,” Hilda rushed at him, stopping him, stammering. “Just an accident.”
There was a scattered heap beside the bed. The water jug and Waterford drinking cup remained intact, but the delicate reading candelabra had shattered.
“She’s just a wee bit upset.” Hilda left him to push a struggling Caroline back down. “She needs her rest, poor mite.”
“Leave her alone.” Summerton waved the maids aside, scowling when Hilda held firm. “Leave her,” he ordered, prepared to shove the woman aside if she didn’t move. It appeared she wouldn’t.
“Hilda!” Eleanor warned. “You do not want to upset his grace.”
“She needs rest,” the woman argued, blocking Summerton from reaching her. “She must rest!” The panic in her voice set off a chain reaction she couldn’t have anticipated.
Summerton grabbed around her ample middle, picked her up and set her aside, but the moment he let go, she rushed past him, covering Caroline with her body.
“Good God, what’s the matter with you?” Summerton bellowed.
“She’s my patient,” Hilda cried. “Mine!”
Eleanor shook her head at Summerton. Reluctantly he stepped back, turning to one of the maids, who stood rooted, eyes wide. He whispered for her to get footmen.
Eleanor moved up beside Hilda.
“Tell me what you think she needs.” Eleanor moved around the woman, efficient but calm, distracting her from the comings and going at the doorway.
“She needs me,” Hilda sniffed, easing up and away from Caroline. “I know what she needs better than anyone.”
“Of course,” Eleanor nodded. “But surely you could use our assistance?”
Hilda shook her head, easing her defensiveness. “She just snagged the doily there, see.” Both women looked at the lace cloth, still entwined in Caroline’s fingers. Caroline was twitching and whimpering in a restless sleep.
“Ah, I see,” Eleanor agreed.
Summerton met two footmen at the door. “Go to either side of her,” he explained. “Slow and gentle. She’s not quite right.” He remained by the door, still and quiet despite the hectic beat of his heart.
Eleanor was still speaking. “Shall I sit with her, while you rest?”
“No.”
Hitches could be heard in the duchess’s sitting room, overseeing preparations for the meal. Summerton had asked to dine alfresco, upstairs, so they could be near Caroline.
The woman’s hand hovered over the poultice covering Caroline’s neck.
“The doctor’s here,” Eleanor’s lie reminded him the doctor was due to arrive. Where the hell was he? “Let Dr. Graham look at her.”
Hilda snapped around, eyes narrowing on the advancing footman who knew enough to still, even as Hitches’ voice drew near enough Summerton could hear him say, “…nearly strangled her grace. Hilda’s with her now.”
“The doctor is here,” Summerton said from the doorway, watching over his shoulder as the man with his black satchel neared.
Abruptly, Hilda stood tall.
“I’ve taken good care of her,” Hilda informed Dr. Graham, “but these silly girls tried to dose her up with the tincture. Treated it like it was a tonic.” She glared at the maids whose eyes had grown even wider, one shaking her head.
“Thank you, Hilda,” Eleanor took her arm, “Dr. Graham can take over.”
“He’ll need me,” Hilda tilted her head toward the doctor, “and you need me to watch her.”
“I’ll watch her.” Summerton stepped further into the room. “She won’t be alone.”
“Go with these two men.” Eleanor released her to the footman. “They’ll take you to the kitchen, see that Cook takes good care of you.”
“My medicines.”
Dr. Graham chimed in. “Not to worry, Hilda. I’ll see one of these boys takes it to your cottage.”
“No!”
The doctor stepped back.
“I’ll take it myself,” Hilda said.
“Have something to eat first,” Eleanor suggested. “You’ve been here a while. No doubt you’re hungry and the doctor would like to see what you’ve given the duchess.”
Hilda waddled toward the door, a footman on either side. “Not me,” she accused. “The maids.”
The minute she went through, Summerton closed the door. “Where did she came from?”
A maid rushed to pick up the broken candelabra.
“She’s not so bad,” Dr. Graham said as he approached Caroline. “Been here for years, your grace. Married one of the game keepers.” He lifted Caroline’s eyelid. “The man died.” He looked at the other eye. “Hilda sometimes works up here, when needs be. Not much. A bit off, but she understands herbs and the like.”
“She’s from up north?” Eleanor asked.
The maid on the floor blurted, “Tha’ woman wasna’ right. She were’t cruel-like. It weren’t truth, about the tonic. We poured it, helped to give it to her grace, but Hilda, she’s told us exact what to do.”
“Beth!” Hitches reprimanded. The doctor consoled, “Of course she did,” shooing the girl away from the bed. “Hilda can be gruff, but she knows what she is doing and wouldn’t let anyone touch one of her patients, without strict supervision.”
Eleanor wasn’t paying attention. Summerton thought he knew why. “I know what you’re thinking, Aun
t, just because she’s from the north, but what are the odds she is connected to this?” he argued.
Eleanor merely tilted her head and tapped a finger to her lips. “It won’t hurt to speak with her, once Caroline is settled.”
Summerton sighed, preferring answers to yet more questions. “I don’t want her near Caroline again.”
Summerton sat beside a sleeping Caroline, opposite Dr. Graham, who disentangled her fingers from the lace edges of a table cloth.
“She pulled everything off the table.” Eleanor joined him.
“On purpose?” He frowned.
Caroline’s brow furrowed, her head jerked. She was uneasy in her sleep.
“Do you know what she was given?” Eleanor asked the maid, who’d been willing to speak earlier. “Do you know what that woman gave to her grace?”
“Tha’ bottle over there.” The girl pointed to a bottle by the box. “Nearly a full one when we started.”
Summerton left Caroline to go through the woman’s healing supplies. “Laudanum?”
Eleanor lifted the amber glass to the light and then sniffed the bottle. “She told you to give her this?” The younger maid nodded, tears on her cheeks. “That’s an undiluted tincture. You say she gave her nearly a full bottle?”
“Rubbish!” Dr. Graham joined her at the apothecary box. “Hilda wouldn’t allow that. It could kill the girl.”
“What are you two saying?” Summerton asked.
“Most of it ended up on her clothes,” the maid explained. “That’s part of the reason we changed her nightrail and the bed linens. She had a terrible time swallowing. Poor thing.”
Eleanor crossed to Caroline, and smelled her breath. Looked to the maid, who stood wringing her hands. “Did you give her any more after she was changed?”
“No, m’lady. Nothing else except the poultice around her neck.”
Dr. Graham shook his head. “Hilda is usually very good at nursing.”
Eleanor ignored him. “Was Hilda ever alone with the duchess?”
The two maids looked to each other before the one started to nod. “When we took the dirty linens away.”
Summerton (Lady Eleanor Mysteries Book 1) Page 21