by Martha Keyes
“Is he?” Mercy walked toward the window, tilting her head to the side as she looked out upon Mr. Coburn. She found it hard to think of a less mysterious person.
“Oh yes, I think so.” Miss Pickering gave a small sigh. “What is he thinking of with such a grave face?”
Mercy pursed her lips, wondering if she should respond. But if Miss Pickering had taken some strange interest in Mr. Coburn, it was better to be very direct. “I imagine he is thinking of my cousin Deborah. He most often is.”
Miss Pickering’s face fell.
Mercy suddenly felt very much in sympathy with Solomon when he had said that he felt like the only sane person in the group. It would take a very obtuse or distracted person indeed to remain ignorant of the connection between Deborah and Mr. Coburn.
“Of course,” she said softly. She continued watching him through the window, her gaze now wistful. “Perhaps it is through the eyes of rejection that I am meant to see. Perhaps”—she put a thoughtful finger to her lips—“the lens of love unrequited shall inspire me.”
Mr. Coburn turned around, and Mercy quickly moved toward the door. It would look very strange for him to find them watching him through the window.
He stepped inside, his eyes upon Mercy. Afraid that Miss Pickering might choose that moment to betray whatever utterly strange interest she felt in Mr. Coburn, Mercy spoke.
“Mr. Coburn, might I request you to accompany me down the corridor for a brief word?”
Mr. Coburn took a quick step toward her and offered her his arm, a gesture Mercy found entirely unnecessary but difficult to refuse.
They strolled down the corridor, Mercy trying to set a more urgent pace than Mr. Coburn seemed inclined to adopt. Solomon might well be awake now and entirely alone.
“Are you well, Miss Marcotte?”
She nodded quickly. “Yes, though I doubt I look it. I have come from the sick room, where I slept all night.” Slept all night was perhaps not accurate. Something about being in the same room as Solomon had made for a restless sleep. Or perhaps it had been the hardwood floor.
Mr. Coburn took both her hands within his, bringing them to a halt in the corridor. “You must take better care of yourself. Might you not go lie down for a time?”
Taken off guard by his intimate gesture, Mercy blinked quickly.
It was at such an ill-timed moment that Deborah stepped out into the corridor, her eyes landing upon the two of them.
Flames of rage burst in her bright eyes, and Mercy withdrew her hands as politely as possible. But it was too late. Deborah had already stalked off.
Shutting her eyes in consternation, Mercy sighed. It was as if she were fighting against fate itself in trying to arrange a happy outcome for everyone at Chesterley.
“It is very kind of you to suggest,” Mercy finally said. But Mr. Coburn’s eyes were trained on the spot Deborah had quit, and his throat bobbed.
“I wondered, in fact,” Mercy said, “if you might take my place in the sick room for a time? I think Mr. Kennett has come through the worst of his illness, but I would be more easy knowing he had company when he wakes.”
Mr. Coburn turned his head back toward her and nodded, and she excused herself to her bedchamber, debating a visit to Deborah to reassure her that what she had inferred from Mercy and Mr. Coburn’s exchange was entirely wrong.
Things were only getting more tangled with every hour. She was beginning to doubt that anything at all could be salvaged after this whole disaster.
Chapter Nineteen
Solomon shifted in the bed from his back to his side. He wrinkled his nose. Something smelled. Was he near the stables?
His body was slow to respond, and he found that he was wretchedly hot and weak, not to mention terribly thirsty.
He managed to open his eyelids, which felt as though someone had weighted them with sand, and he blinked at the light of the sun pouring into his bedchamber.
Mr. Coburn sat nearby on the edge of his seat, watching Solomon with alert eyes.
“What are you doing here?” Solomon asked hoarsely. “And why does it smell like a pigsty in my bedchamber?”
Mr. Coburn smiled apologetically. “I am afraid you are the one responsible for the smell, Mr. Kennett. You have vomited no less than five times—and only once did you manage to find the chamber pot beforehand. The staff has been in and out all evening cleaning, and I am here to ensure that the doctor is not needed again.”
Solomon attempted to sit up in bed, but Mr. Coburn put his unslung arm out to stop him. “You should lie down, sir. I think movement agitates your condition.”
His condition? He narrowed his eyes, trying to grasp at any memory of what had happened before he had woken in this bed, surrounded by the smell of what was apparently his own sick.
He let his head drop back onto the pillow, shutting his eyes. He had fought with Mercy. That he remembered quite well, for he had made her cry, cur that he was.
But what had happened after? She had left with Miss Pawnce and—his eyes flew open. The elixir.
His stomach rumbled and cramped, and he winced, putting a hand to his abdomen.
“Get me Miss Pawnce,” he said through clenched teeth. “I shall wring her little neck!”
Mr. Coburn sent him a sympathetic smile. “Yes, Miss Pawnce has made quite a stir.”
Solomon didn’t respond, needing all his concentration to push through the cramping that ravaged his insides at that moment.
Mr. Coburn seemed not to notice, though, and he rose from his chair, looking through the window thoughtfully. “I confess,” he said, “that I was somewhat skeptical of the whole thing at first, and the small hope I did have for the elixir was that it might bring Deborah to her senses. But instead I found myself first looking upon Miss Marcotte.” He sighed. “And I little know what to do with the web of thoughts and emotions I have since experienced.”
Solomon tensed even more, this time not due to the cramping.
“Naturally, my heart took violent exception to the idea of abandoning Deborah, for I never thought I should love another woman. But what am I to do? I have been forced to consider that perhaps we are not the perfect match I had once thought us to be.” He put a pensive finger to his lips. “Miss Marcotte has plenty of traits to recommend her—”
Solomon gritted his teeth together. Did he need Mr. Coburn to enumerate Mercy’s best qualities? Hardly.
Another cramp came on, but his hearing was cruelly unaffected.
“—She has a keen appreciation for the finer points of propriety, and, while she could never compare to Deborah—indeed, who could?—she has her own sort of subtle beauty—”
Solomon blew out a loud breath, and his hand flew to his mouth, as exhaling so violently seemed to be unwise.
To compare Mercy to Deborah was unjust in the extreme. But only because Deborah could never hold a candle to Mercy, even on her best days—which seemed to be few and far between.
“She is kind and warmhearted,” Mr. Coburn said softly.
Solomon’s stomach churned, but whether it was a result of the jealousy which seemed to fan out from his heart to his extremities, or if it was the continuing effects of Miss Pawnce’s concoction, he couldn’t say.
Mr. Coburn rested an arm on the window sill, then looked at Solomon with narrowed eyes that seemed to gaze through him rather than at him. “I fear things will only become clear by spending more time in Miss Marcotte’s company.” His eyes locked with Solomon’s. “Should you mind if I sent someone else to look after you for a short while, Mr. Kennett?”
“Mind?” Solomon gritted his teeth and shut his eyes, trying to maintain control over whatever contents might be left in his stomach. “I insist. Send someone else—anyone else!”
Silence met his words, and he opened his lids enough to see Mr. Coburn frowning at him before taking himself off through the door.
Who would Mr. Coburn send in his place? Perhaps Solomon shouldn’t have been so hasty in telling him to send just anyone. Besides already h
aving kindled the anger inside him—which seemed to burn brighter with each passing inclination to retch—Miss Pawnce was every bit as likely as Mr. Coburn to enumerate Mercy’s virtues to him. Trading Mr. Coburn for Miss Pawnce would be no relief at all.
And what if he sent Mercy? Solomon’s jaw shifted. He had no desire to see Mercy right now. Or rather, he did have a desire to see her but wished heartily that he could expel it from him as easily as his body wished to expel his food. And though it shouldn’t concern him, neither did he wish Mr. Coburn to seek Mercy out for his own purposes. It was none of his business.
After all, what had his feelings for Mercy ever brought him but pain and heartache?
He seemed to have a distressing lack of control over what he felt when it came to Mercy Marcotte. Two years had done little to alter his feelings toward her, and he was ashamed; for what kind of pitiful man continued loving the woman who had jilted him?
His stomach settled for a moment, and he relaxed his shoulders, letting his head sink into the pillow.
He might not be able to control his heart, but he could certainly control his actions, and he had no intention of letting his heart make a fool of him yet again.
It was only a few minutes before the door swung open and Miss Lanaway appeared, a decisive quality to her movements, a defiant lift to her chin, and a light in her eyes that Solomon could only call martial, despite the way her mouth was pulled into a smile.
“Mr. Kennett.” She came to sit in the chair beside the bed. “Mr. Coburn has requested—nay, insisted—that I am come to look after you for a time.”
Solomon mustered a civil smile. Had Coburn really asked Miss Lanaway to take over his duties in the sickroom so he could spend time with Mercy? It was no wonder Miss Lanaway was in such a bad humor.
The prospect of making conversation with her—particularly in her current mood—was not one he relished. Whatever happy mood the prospect of a love potion had brought over her, it had been but a temporary change, and Solomon had neither the energy nor the desire to take on the task of guiding her back toward Mr. Coburn. Mercy was more selfless than he.
“I thank you,” he said weakly, feeling another bout of nausea swell within him.
She looked at him doubtfully. “You look quite done up. You know, Viola offered to make up a paregoric of some sort—one that her aunt used to make, I believe—to counter”—she waved her hand toward him and clenched her teeth—“whatever symptoms you are experiencing.”
The wave of nausea subsided slowly, but a slight panic replaced it.
“If you allow her within ten feet of me, I take no responsibility for the repercussions.”
Miss Lanaway raised her brows. “Yes, well you are hardly the only one to have experienced awful effects from her elixir.”
He smiled knowingly. Clearly the outcome of all this was not to Miss Lanaway’s taste.
“Where’s Coburn?” he asked, watching her out of the corner of his eye. “With Miss Marcotte?”
Miss Lanaway trained her wide eyes upon him. “Why would you say that?”
He had hit a sore point. Ah well, Miss Lanaway could do with a difficult word or two. “He expressed some intention to come to know her better when he was in here just before you.”
Miss Lanaway’s tensed her lips and folded her arms. “Well, I wish them very happy, I am sure! They deserve each other.”
Solomon’s stomach clenched at the thought. He wished that Miss Lanaway would leave.
She rubbed at the carved wooden arms of her chair with something between a pout and a frown, reminding Solomon of a petulant child. Had he truly been on the verge of marrying this woman?
He didn’t feel he could abide more conversation with her—complaints about Mr. Coburn and Mercy, sprinkled with implications about whatever she thought was going on between them. If anything could make him wish for unconsciousness again, it would be that.
An idea occurred to him, only to be immediately dismissed. It wouldn’t be right.
“Conspiring together to hide the truth from me,” Miss Lanaway muttered, “and heaven knows what else besides. And after all Frederick and I have been through together! After all I have done for Mercy.”
No, it wouldn’t do. Solomon needed Miss Lanaway in the sickroom like he needed more of Miss Pawnce’s dreaded elixir.
Well, there was one way he might be rid of her without having to ask her to leave, for he hardly wished to add to her sense of misuse.
He put a hand to his mouth and grabbed the large pot beside his bed. “Forgive me, Miss Lana—” He jolted forward, as if he might retch, though truthfully there was nothing left in his stomach.
Just as he had anticipated, Miss Lanaway drew back as far into the chair as she could, a look of terror and revulsion on her face.
She spasmed, and her hand clasped at her mouth, eyes wide.
“Oh for heaven’s sake,” Solomon said, quickly extending the pot toward her. It served him right for trying to trick her into leaving.
Miss Lanaway shook her head quickly and rose from her chair. “I cannot…I mustn’t…” And with that, she fled the room.
“Don’t bother sending anyone after you!” Solomon called out, knowing she was too far gone to hear him.
It suited him very well indeed to be left alone. Certainly serving Miss Lanaway such a trick wasn’t his finest moment, but he was feeling far too frustrated with his situation to spend too much time dwelling on the guilt he felt.
He shut his eyes and laid his head back, relishing the silence of the room.
The door soon creaked, opening slowly, and Miss Pawnce appeared, carrying a bowl wrapped in a towel. He stifled an oath. Would he never be left in peace?
Miss Pawnce took timid steps into the room. “Mr. Kennett.” She adjusted her grip on the bowl and held it out toward him, much like an offering.
Solomon shook his head slowly, pulling back until the headboard stopped him. “What is that?”
“It is a restorative.” She looked at him with so much turbulence and anxiety in her expression that Solomon bit back the words that rose to his lips—an immediate and unmistakable order for her to leave.
“Come to finish me off?” He eyed the bowl as though it might pounce upon him at any moment and force its contents down his throat.
Miss Pawnce stopped mid-step, crestfallen. “I never meant to make you ill, Mr. Kennett. Please believe that it was an honest mistake.”
He chuckled softly, his stomach gurgling oddly with the action. “I believe you. But I must ask, Miss Pawnce: why am I the only one afflicted? Everyone partook of your concoction, did they not?”
She swallowed and wet her lips, setting down the bowl on the bedside table, avoiding his eyes.
“Miss Pawnce,” he said in a leery voice.
She glanced at him, guilt written in the lines of her face. “I may have supplemented yours.”
His jaw fell open, and he took a moment before responding.
Miss Pawnce was nearly shaking in her shoes, and, much as he wished to wring her neck, he couldn’t bring himself to make her feel any worse.
“And to what do I owe such a doubtful distinction?”
She gave a timid and unconvincing shrug.
He refused to let her avoid his gaze. “Do you not think I deserve to know why I was selected to receive a near death sentence? Have I wronged you in some way that would merit such drastic measures?”
“No, no!” she cried, alarmed. “I was only trying to help, Mr. Kennett. I swear!”
He was only trying to provoke her, of course. He didn’t truly think such a thing. But she was obviously very hesitant to confess to him why she had added…what had she added?
“Well, if making a man so ill that his body will only be content when it has expelled its own vital organs is what you consider ‘help,’ then I think you will understand when I tell you that I have no intention at all of trying that.” He indicated the bowl she had placed on the table.
“It is harmless, I assu
re you.” She took it into her hands again. “And it will certainly make you feel better, calming your stomach and giving you strength. It is merely ginger and—”
Solomon held up his hand to silence her, shaking his head. “That word ‘merely’ strikes cold fear into my heart, Miss Pawnce. For the last thing of yours I drank was merely pansy water.”
She averted her eyes, mumbling something.
“What was that?” Solomon leaned in to hear better. “One mustn’t mutter if one wishes to be heard.”
“It was pansies, yes. But that was not all.”
“Yes, what did you add?” he asked. “I am no connoisseur of plants, but I cannot imagine what type would cause what I have experienced.”
She paused. “Belladonna.” She averted her eyes. “Also known as deadly nightshade.”
“Deadly night”—he clamped his mouth shut. “The plant is actually called deadly nightshade, and you thought that adding it to my glass would be helpful?”
She shook her head, putting the bowl back down. “I didn’t realize at the time that the berries were from a belladonna plant! You saw what a tangle of plants fills the ruins! I merely thought I was strengthening your dose.”
He let out a wry laugh. “Strength is certainly not what I received from it.” He held his hand up, keeping it suspended in the air as they both watched it tremble pitifully. He let it drop to the bed, relief spreading through his arm at no longer being required to hold up the weight of his hand. Confound that elixir and the havoc it had wreaked on his body.
“You still haven’t told me why I, of all four who partook, was selected for this enhanced dose.”
She hesitated before responding. “I thought you in the greatest need of love.”
Solomon was speechless. Dumbfounded.
Miss Pawnce watched him nervously, her fingers fiddling at her waist.
The more he considered her words, the more the anger bubbled up inside of him. She thought Solomon stood most in need of love?
“Because I have now been rejected twice?” he asked in a harsh voice.
“No,” she answered softly. “Because you have rejected love.”