by Martha Keyes
“Vi, what are they?”
Viola’s lips trembled slightly. “Belladonna.”
Mercy stared, then raised her brows questioningly.
“Deadly nightshade,” Viola added. She averted her eyes. “The devil’s berries.”
Mercy clenched her teeth.
Viola sniffed, and her face crumpled. “I didn’t realize it as I picked them,” she said tearfully, “because none of the plant’s flowers were present. But when Deborah came to find me and informed me that Mr. Kennett had taken ill, I rushed back and did indeed find one hidden flower among the plant’s leaves.” A tear streaked down her cheek as she looked to Solomon, who was cradling his stomach. “I am so sorry,” she said softly.
“Vi.” Mercy put a hand on her cousin’s shoulders to redirect her attention. “I am sure you meant no harm by it, but I must know—how poisonous are the berries? And why have the rest of us not fallen ill?”
Viola looked at her with stricken eyes. “The berries can be fatal—”
Mercy’s breath stopped.
“—but I don’t believe I used enough for that.” She averted her eyes. “And they were only in Mr. Kennett’s dose.”
Mercy said nothing, for she knew she would only regret whatever words she spoke to Viola in such a moment. She moved past her cousin and sat on the edge of the bed, where Solomon writhed.
Fatal? Was it really possible that he could die from that wretched elixir? She clenched her eyes shut, forcing an angry, helpless tear out. It was she who had insisted that he drink it.
Viola’s timid voice broke through Mercy’s unbearable thoughts. “I could make an infusion to counter his fever and retching.”
Mercy shook her head, forcing herself to breathe before she spoke. “No, Vi.” The last thing they needed was another of Viola’s concoctions.
The sound of footsteps grew louder, and Mercy whipped around. It was Deborah, followed by the doctor.
“Thank heaven,” Mercy said, rising from the bed and wringing her hands.
The doctor’s eyes shifted between Solomon on the bed and Mr. Coburn, whose arm still hung in a makeshift sling across his torso. “I came to check on Mr. Coburn, but…”
Mr. Coburn motioned to Solomon. “His is the urgent need.”
Mercy put out a hand, inviting the doctor to approach Solomon. “He has ingested poison—deadly nightshade berries.”
The doctor’s brows shot up. “How came he to do such a thing?”
Viola shrank. “I mistakenly added them to an elixir he drank.”
The doctor inspected Viola with disfavor. “An elixir?”
She averted her eyes. “It was made mostly from heartsease, but I added berries to Mr. Kennett’s glass.”
“I see,” the doctor said in a stern voice. He turned to Solomon, opening his leather bag as he sat on the bed.
Mercy stood behind him, looking down at Solomon, who was coughing and wincing. “I found him just before he vomited the first time. At least I assume it was the first time.”
The doctor turned briefly to see who was addressing him. “He has vomited? More than once?”
“Yes, twice in my presence.”
“Well, that is something, at least, for it means his body is trying to rid itself of the poison. It is fighting.”
“Is he in grave danger?” Mercy swallowed down the lump in her throat, afraid to ask her real question: would Solomon live?
“It is difficult to say.” The doctor put a hand to Solomon’s head. “I mislike the fever—it should be accompanied by sweating, but his skin is dry to the touch.” He turned around to face Mercy and the others. “I should like to perform an examination.”
The previously still audience sprang to flustered movement in order to give the doctor and his patient privacy.
Being the last one out of the room, Mercy closed the door softly behind her and watched Deborah and Mr. Coburn walk down the corridor together, though not arm-in-arm as they normally would have been. Mr. Coburn sent a glance back at Mercy over his shoulder—that same curious expression on his face, as though he were seeing her for the first time and didn’t know what to make of her.
Mercy’s eyes grew wide at the thought. In all of the chaos the past hour, she hadn’t had a moment to think what might be the cause of Mr. Coburn’s unusual behavior. If she hadn’t been so caught up in her own thoughts and emotions, she might have wondered at discovering him without Deborah, for she was tolerably certain that Viola would have sent them to the same place after drinking her elixir.
But they had not been together. Mr. Coburn had been alone, which meant that the first person he had laid eyes upon was likely Mercy.
She let out a frustrated sigh. She didn’t believe that the elixir truly had the power to make him fall in love with her, but if he believed it did...well, the mind was a powerful thing.
Mercy was well aware that Solomon had been the first person she had seen, but she needed no elixir to tell her what she already knew agonizingly well: she was in love with Solomon Kennett. And she could never have him.
She leaned back against the wall, letting her head rest against it. None of that mattered when Solomon’s life was in danger because of her.
A few minutes later, the door opened, and the doctor emerged.
Mercy rushed to stand straight. “How is he?”
The doctor removed his glasses and shook his head. “He is well enough, I suppose, though I shouldn’t be at all surprised if he is in and out of consciousness. Belladonna can cause hallucinations, gaps in memory, disorientation, so you must be prepared for erratic behavior until it has made its way through his system. In the meantime, I must insist that someone be with him at all times, for how he responds to the poison will depend upon any number of factors.” He put on his hat. “I have cleaned him up and have hope that the vomiting has passed. Send for me if he takes a turn for the worse.”
Mercy nodded quickly, dismissing the unwelcome thought of having to call upon him again.
“I shall go see to Mr. Coburn now if he is available.” It was a question, and Mercy advised the doctor that he might be found in the direction she had seen Deborah and Mr. Coburn walking a few minutes earlier.
He strode down the corridor, leaving Mercy before the open door to the bedchamber, where Solomon lay on the bed, motionless.
Taking gentle steps, she entered the room, wincing with every slight creaking of the floorboards, and took a seat in the small wooden chair beside his bed.
Solomon’s insides might be writhing, but whatever the doctor had given him had calmed the storm enough that he lay peacefully, his wavy locks tousled from all his tossing to and fro. His cheeks were a rich pink, no doubt from the fever, and Mercy knew an impulse to put a hand to one of them to feel its warmth.
The sheets were a wrinkled mess around him, and he still wore his coat. It couldn’t be comfortable to sleep in such a form-fitting coat, and Mercy wished she could remove it for him, allowing him to sleep more easily in his shirt sleeves. The thought brought a slight warmth into her own cheeks.
Perhaps it was for the best that she could not remove his coat.
He twitched slightly, and she watched him warily as his hand relaxed again, hanging over the edge of the bed. She hoped he could sleep through the worst of the poisoning.
She couldn’t help but admire the sleeping man before her. What was it about sleep that had the power to transform even the most hardened of men into innocents?
She breathed it in—the view of the man she loved, with none of the walls with which he had surrounded himself. She was unlikely to see him this way again—and she could hardly blame him, for he had been vulnerable with her once before, and she had rejected him.
He shifted again, his head tossing from one side to the other and his brow creasing into a small v-shape.
She put an anxious hand on his arm, and his lids fluttered. Still half-veiled, his eyes rested upon her, and his mouth stretched into a lazy smile.
“Mercy,” he
said softly, and his brow relaxed.
She swallowed. “Yes. But you shouldn’t talk. It is best if you can rest a bit longer.”
He blinked slowly and reached a hand to her cheek.
She froze at the touch, her heart thumping wildly. She held his gaze, uncertainty and agonizing hope paralyzing her.
His lips turned up into a tender smile, and his thumb stroked her cheek. “We cannot get married soon enough for my taste, my love.”
Her eyes raked over his features, gentle and relaxed in his weakened state, and landed upon his mouth.
She clamped her eyes shut and lowered her head. He was delirious. He had said those exact words shortly after their engagement. He must be thinking himself in the past. The doctor had warned her against this. It wasn’t real.
And yet it felt terribly real.
She opened her eyes, and his thumb stilled on her cheek as he looked on her with adoration in his eyes. “I love you, Mercy.”
Her throat caught, and her eyes stung.
Would it be wrong to surrender to whatever memory Solomon had latched onto? To recapture just one moment from their past? After all, if she resisted, it might agitate him, and that could hardly be conducive to his recovery.
He pulled her toward him slowly, and the blood pounded in Mercy’s ears, her heart urging her to yield just this once, her head warning her of the consequences.
Solomon’s brow furrowed suddenly, his lips mere inches from hers.
He pushed her away, made a spasmodic movement, then heaved forward, retching onto Mercy’s lap and the floor below.
Chapter Eighteen
However lovingly Solomon had reached for Mercy, however warmly his heavily veiled eyes might have looked on her, his vomiting all over her and the floor had brought about a swift return to hard, cold reality for Mercy. He was delirious—just as the doctor had warned her he might be—and no sooner had he vomited than he had returned to his state of unconsciousness.
She wiped his damp brow with a catch in her throat and heavy heart, remembering his words from just a few short hours ago:
I certainly haven’t forgotten it. And I never shall.
There was nothing Mercy could do or say to undo her decision from two years ago. That decision would define the rest of her life. It certainly defined her to Solomon.
She paused with the towel to his forehead, brushing away the hair it had dampened and looking at the small scar on his eyebrow. His face was so familiar, even after so much time apart—so familiar that she noted the two new lines at the corner of each eye, barely visible with his face so relaxed, but evidence of just how much he had smiled and aged during those two years away.
He had a new life, now—one he would return to in Jamaica. Seeing Mercy was simply an unwelcome reminder of an unpleasant time in his past. He remembered what had happened, but it seemed not to define his life as it had come to define Mercy’s. And there was fairness in that. Solomon deserved happiness, for he had done nothing wrong.
Mercy stood, putting a hand to her trembling mouth, suddenly feeling suffocated by the heavy air in the room. She needed to change her clothing—she needed a moment alone.
Feeling the strange sensation that she was being watched, she whipped her head around.
Miss Pickering stood at the door, watching her with a soft, curious light in her eyes. Mercy wondered with a blush how long she had been standing there.
“How is he?” Miss Pickering asked.
“Peaceful for the moment, but only time will tell.” She let out a frustrated breath and went to pull the bell. “I feel somewhat responsible for his state.”
Miss Pickering wore a knowing smile. She was, for once, calm, and the effect was to make Mercy feel almost uneasy.
“I, too, am seeing with the eyes of love, my dear,” Miss Pickering said. “It is an entirely different world. I feel young again!”
Mercy offered a hesitant laugh, unsure what to make of her hostess. Who in the world was Miss Pickering in love with?
“Unfortunately,” Mercy said, needing a reason to change the subject, “I have fallen victim to the effects of your nephew’s illness, and I think a change of clothing is merited.”
Miss Pickering set a soft hand upon Mercy’s arm. “Solomon could hardly ask for a better nurse.”
Mercy tried to smile and move away, but Miss Pickering’s grip tightened. “Miss Marcotte. Have you seen Mr. Coburn?”
Mercy frowned and shook her head. “I am afraid not. Is there something I could help you with?”
Miss Pickering shook her head absently, staring toward the window. Full dark had fallen outside. “No, thank you. I shall find him.”
A maid arrived at the door, and Miss Pickering moved to let her pass before leaving the room.
“I am in need of ten minutes to change my clothing,” Mercy said to the maid, her eyes lingering on the doorway her hostess had passed through. Something strange was afoot with Miss Pickering. Whatever it was, it would have to wait for later. “If you could ensure that Mr. Kennett is looked after during that time, I shall return as soon as I have changed. I think, too, that it would be best if Mr. Kennett’s coat could be removed—as gently as possible, of course—and then washed, along with the rug beside the bed.”
The maid curtsied. “Very good, miss. Would you like me to send Miss Pickering’s maid to help you change? And perhaps have her bring one of my mistress’s dresses? I understand you did not come prepared for a long stay.”
“I would appreciate that,” Mercy said with a grateful smile as she moved to the door. Her dress would need a thorough scrubbing, but she had nothing else to wear.
Mercy absently combed her hands through her hair as she walked to her own chamber. Perhaps she should have one of the servants sit with Solomon instead of sitting with him herself. He might well prefer such an arrangement.
Miss Pickering’s maid assisted Mercy into a high-necked dress—clearly a relic of her mistress’s ancient and rigidly proper past. The dress was hardly meant for a young, unmarried woman, and the lacing in the back was as tight as it could be, but it would have to do for now.
Without Solomon’s presence clouding her head, Mercy was able to set her mind to the dilemma of his care. Of course, she wouldn’t be able to sit with him all hours of the day and night—someone would have to relieve her at some point. But she had forced him into this mess, and she wanted to see him through it.
Besides, being able to care for him felt like a small step—a very small one, albeit—toward atoning for the past. She doubted he would want to wake to her face beside him, but she could at least stay with him and attend to his needs until he woke. He needn’t ever know that she had tended to him. Nor what he had said to her in his delirium.
Once she was changed, Mercy stayed with Solomon for hours, wiping his head with a cool, damp towel whenever his cheeks began to turn red. More than once she considered having the doctor called to return, for Solomon alternated between frightening listlessness and thrashing in the sheets.
He writhed in them from time to time, throwing them from him, and exposing his open-chested shirt, at which point Mercy tried valiantly to avert her eyes. Sometimes he would seem to regain brief consciousness, only to mutter strange things and act as though he was seeing other people in the room.
At other times, he shivered violently, and Mercy would pull the sheets and bed covers back over him, chafing his arms until his teeth stopped chattering.
The door to Solomon’s bedchamber remained half-open, and the silence of the sickroom was punctuated with the footsteps of passing servants, preparing for the night. Viola had come at one point, offering to take Mercy’s place at the sick bed. She was clearly suffering under a heavy sense of guilt for Solomon’s state.
Mercy had looked at Solomon, the deep “v” of pain creasing his brow as his head turned from one side of his pillow to the other. Mercy had her doubts that he would take Viola for a nurse, given his experience with her.
She smiled at Vi
ola. “I promise that I shall seek relief when I find myself in need of it.”
Viola lingered for a moment at the door, then left.
Mercy sighed. She would almost have been relieved to hear a quotation or a poem from her cousin. There was something terribly sad about the deflated, subdued demeanor she had assumed since Solomon’s illness had begun.
It was late into the night when Solomon seemed to settle into a deeper sleep. Mercy felt his forehead, content that his fever was beginning to abate. She had tried to find a comfortable way to sleep in the chair beside the bed, nodding off to sleep only to wake with a jolt as her head dropped onto her chest.
Finally, she had taken an unused pillow from beside Solomon and settled onto the newly placed rug on the floor beside the bed.
She woke with a start at sunrise and, after checking to ensure that Solomon was not feverish, slipped quietly from the room and went in search of Mr. Coburn.
He was the best candidate to replace her in the sick room. Viola, with her overwhelming guilt at the damage she had caused, couldn’t be trusted to leave things well alone; Deborah had none of the qualities of a good nurse; and Miss Pickering…well, Mercy had too much experience with her distraction to think she would see to Solomon’s needs.
Having checked most of the obvious rooms for Mr. Coburn, Mercy decided to see whether he was perhaps taking the air on the terrace overlooking the gardens.
But it was Miss Pickering whom she found first, standing with a hand gently resting on the window pane, looking thoughtfully at the vista outside.
Coming up behind her, Mercy glanced through the window, and her brows shot up. Mr. Coburn was standing on the terrace just beyond them, leaned over so that his elbows rested on the stone wall that ran along it.
Mercy cleared her throat softly, and Miss Pickering whirled around. She smiled as her eyes found Mercy, then turned back toward the windows. “He is very Daedalian, isn’t he?”
“I am sorry. He is very what?”
Miss Pickering turned toward her. “Complex. Mysterious. Difficult to comprehend.”