Mountain Christmas Brides

by Mildred Colvin

  Wanting to assess his condition and stay warm at the same time, he went to the fireplace and rolled up his shirtsleeve. “Oh no! Hives!” Unable to control the urge, he scratched.

  “Hives!” A female gasped.

  Maximilian startled and swirled in the direction of the voice.

  Her companion interrupted. “I beg your pardon, sir. Can’t you see we want privacy here?”

  Maximilian saw none other than Whit, a known rake and cad. Hovering behind him was a girl he had known since she was a baby—Nanette. Such a young woman had no business to be involved with a scoundrel. Though he couldn’t see her expression in the dim light, he could feel her embarrassment.

  Whit’s eyes didn’t meet his. Without a doubt, he had caught them in a stolen kiss. Maximilian squashed the urge to warn the girl about Whit. Judging from her blushing cheeks and unwillingness to look him in the eye, admonitions would only be greeted with deaf ears.

  “What’s that?” Whit’s pointing motion brought with it a whiff of a liberal application of bay rum.

  Taken aback even though he knew Whit saw the condition of his arm, Maximilian blurted, “What’s what?”

  Whit moved toward him and pointed to red bumps. “Look, you’ve got them on your face, too.”

  Maximilian touched his face and discovered welts.

  “You don’t have the measles, do you?” He cringed and stepped back. “I couldn’t abide catching the measles.”

  “Measles? No, no. It’s nothing like that, why, it’s …” He searched for an explanation until he recalled the only cause for such symptoms. “Do I look flushed?”

  They nodded.

  A feeling of impending doom visited him. “Then it could only be one thing. I must have somehow eaten rhubarb. And that means trouble.” His stomach tightened.

  “We’ve got to get a doctor right away,” Whit said. “That new doctor in town is here, isn’t he? What’s his name—Stanton?”

  Maximilian tried to think, but his brain was getting too foggy to remember. “Uh, I … why, I think so. Yes, I was introduced to a doctor named Stanton. A charming fellow, as I recall. Forgive me. I’m not usually this muddleheaded.”

  “Of course not. You’re sick,” Nanette said.

  Whit agreed. “Don’t try to say anything else. Nanette, go get the doctor.”

  She nodded and exited the library.

  “Sit on the couch,” Whit advised, pointing to a short sofa upholstered in a paisley print near the fire. “I won’t hear an argument.” Without further ado, Whit took an unlit candle from a silver stick, lit it with the fire, and proceeded to light a lamp.

  Even in his weakened and somewhat frightened state, Maximilian felt he had to argue, though on a different point. “Come here, Whit.”

  “I’m not sure I want to.”

  “Fine. Stay there by the light.”

  “What’s so important?”

  “I decided to spare you by not saying this in front of Nanette, but if you want to play games, save them for women sophisticated enough to know the score. Don’t sully an innocent girl.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Maximilian knew well that Whit knew exactly what he meant. “Nanette’s children will be going to Sunday school in this town some day. Unless you mean to be the gentleman with her, find someone who doesn’t expect marriage. And that goes for the other young girls around here, too.”

  His pleasant features darkened into a sinister scowl. “See here, sport, this is the twentieth century, not the Dark Ages. I never have and never will force my attentions on a woman. Nanette knows the score.”

  “It was too dim to see a lot in here, but I could feel her excitement and hear the rapture in her voice. She isn’t skilled in the games you play. And you know it.”

  “Who do you think you are, her father?”

  “No, but I know her father, and if he were here, that’s what he’d say, and then some. Don’t let me see you with her again unless your intentions are honorable.”

  “Or what?” Whit snarled.

  “I know my voice is hoarse and I sound strange when I speak now, but you can take my word that you don’t want to cross me when I’m at full strength.” Breathing had become difficult, but Maximilian tried not to show it for fear of appearing weak.

  “I won’t stand here and be insulted. I’ll let it slide this time since you’re ill. But don’t expect me to play nursemaid.” He left without another word.

  As soon as Whit departed, Maximilian heard footfalls of several people rushing in. No doubt they wanted to view him as though he were a sideshow exhibit. He wished he didn’t have the presence of mind to be chagrined, but he did.

  Thalia rushed to his side to sit beside him on the couch. “Maximilian, what’s wrong?”

  Though he had managed to ward off Whit from making more advances toward Nanette—or at least he hoped, at this point his tongue felt too thick for him to respond. All he could do was shake his head. He wished Thalia didn’t look so alarmed.

  “The doctor will be here any minute. He went to his buggy to retrieve his bag. You’re in good hands,” Thalia assured him.

  Maximilian heard an authoritative voice. “Move aside, everyone, please. I need to see the patient.”

  Obeying, the partygoers vacated the room, leaving him alone with the doctor.

  His consoling voice matched his concerned countenance. “How are you feeling?”

  Having spent his voice protecting Nanette against Whit, at this point he could only shake his head.

  “Can you breathe okay?” Even as he asked, Dr. Stanton took out his stethoscope and warmed the shiny metal tip against his palm.

  Maximilian shook his head. “Throat’s sore and a little tight.”

  “We can take care of that. Has this happened before?”

  He nodded.

  “How many times? Do you recall? You don’t have to speak, just hold up your fingers to indicate the number.”

  Sensing the question’s importance, he tried his best to recall every incident. The time at his aunt’s had taught him a lesson but good. He hadn’t gone near the fruit since. He held up one finger. Maximilian thought, trying to recall when he had felt so miserable. He couldn’t remember. Except … except the time he encountered rhubarb at his aunt May’s. But surely he hadn’t eaten any rhubarb tonight.

  Maximilian sighed. “Fruit. Rhubarb.”

  His brow wrinkled. “Have you eaten rhubarb today? I don’t remember seeing any on the table.”

  Maximilian shook his head, feeling foolish. He always took care not to eat the cursed fruit. How he managed to encounter it now, he had no idea.

  Dorcas peeked her head in the door. “Is there anything I can do?”

  The doctor looked at her. “Not right now, but you could wait a minute while I question Mr. Newbolt.” After Dorcas exited, he turned back to his patient. “Maximilian, when did you first notice your symptoms?”

  He tried to recall. “About … fifteen … or twenty minutes ago … itch in my throat … nose started running.” He reached in his pocket, pulled out a rumpled handkerchief, and blew his nose.

  The doctor placed the stethoscope against Maximilian’s chest. “When did you notice the rash?”

  “A few minutes later.” He tried not to cough but couldn’t help himself. The hacking resounded throughout the library, embarrassing him with its vigor.

  “Does your throat feel full?”

  He tried to swallow then nodded.

  “We need to figure out if you had any rhubarb.” The doctor put the stethoscope into his jacket pocket. “If not, we have to find out what else you’re allergic to.”

  He called in Dorcas, who appeared with Thalia.

  “Ladies, was there any rhubarb in anything you served tonight?”

  Thalia blanched. “Yes. Why?”

  “From the best I can tell, Mr. Newbolt is allergic to rhubarb, and he has had a reaction.”

  “Oh, no!” Their hostess gasped. �
�Maximilian, did you eat one of the tarts with red filling?”

  “Yes … strawberry, Edith said. Delicious. I had … another.”

  “It’s all my fault.” This time she wailed. “That was a new recipe that called for strawberry and rhubarb preserves. Oh, what have I done?”

  The doctor stood and turned to Thalia. “We need to get him into bed. Could we move him to a guest room?”

  “Of course. We have several bedrooms. Actually, one is on the first floor. It would be easier to put him there. I’ll have Eliza start the fire.” Dorcas moved toward the door.

  “After he’s in bed, we need to make a tent out of a sheet and fill it with steam. You do have a teakettle on the stove, don’t you?” As he spoke, Dr. Stanton held out his hand to Maximilian. Grateful for the assistance, he accepted it and balanced himself on his feet.

  “Yes, I can get whatever you want.” Dorcas clasped her hands as if trying to keep them still. “Perhaps you could help take Maximilian down the hall and help him get into bed. There’s an old nightshirt of my brother’s in the top drawer of the bureau.”

  “I’ll do that, and Miss Bloom, please bring a glass of water and a spoon when you return.”

  A glass of water sounded good to Maximilian, as did any help he could get. A few moments later, feeling woozy, he offered no resistance as the doctor helped him dress for bed and tucked him underneath the covers.

  As soon as he was in bed, the doctor asked for his wrist and checked his pulse rate. Though Dr. Stanton kept his expression neutral, Maximilian didn’t take comfort in his lack of consoling words. But at the moment he was too tired to ask questions.

  Thalia waited as long as her patience allowed before returning to the first-floor guest room.

  Lord, please heal Maximilian!

  She knocked on the door. “May I come in?”

  “Yes,” the doctor answered.

  As she entered, Thalia noted with satisfaction that being sure the spare room sparkled had paid off. Even though earlier that evening, neither she nor Aunt Dorcas had any idea they’d have overnight guests, both women liked to keep every place in the house presentable whether they planned for it to be seen by visitors or not. Maximilian was sure to rest in comfort—or, at least in as much comfort as possible for someone ill—in a room as well appointed yet homey as he would find in Denver.

  The doctor stood over his patient. Maximilian looked helpless lying alone in the four-poster bed with several woolen blankets and the sheets pulled up to his neck, his head nestled in fluffy down pillows. If only she hadn’t served rhubarb.

  For fear of disturbing them, she didn’t want to make her approach too close. “Is he going to be all right?” Her worry expressed itself in her voice at the sight of the hives on his forehead.

  The doctor turned a kind expression toward her. “Oh, it’s you, Miss Thalia. I thought you were your aunt returning with the things I requested. Yes, I believe he’ll be all right.”

  She hoped the doctor felt as confident as he appeared. “Is there any way I can help?”

  “I’ve been thinking about the best way to tent him for the steam. I asked your aunt for supplies. Maybe you could get us an extra sheet. And bring a couple of towels and a bowl. Miss Bloom is bringing the teakettle and a glass of water.”

  “I think there’s an extra sheet right here.” Thalia made haste to open the bottom drawer of the cherrywood bureau. A faint yet sharp smell of mothballs greeted her as she reached for seldom-used linens. At least they were clean and would do the job.

  Turning around, she saw the doctor checking Maximilian’s pulse. “How is it, Doctor?”

  “No change.” He studied his patient. “At least he’s asleep now.”

  “I wonder if he’ll sleep through the night.”

  “I wouldn’t count on it, although I’ll make him as comfortable as I can.” The doctor took a seat in the blue brocade Chippendale chair beside the fireplace and pulled it up next to the bed.

  A knock indicated that Aunt Dorcas was back. Thalia opened the door and let her aunt in.

  The doctor took the tray from Aunt Dorcas, set it on the bedside table, and took the sheet Thalia had draped across her arm. “Probably the best way to do this is to tuck this behind the headboard and drape it across Mr. Newbolt.” He leaned toward his patient and gently shook him awake. “I really hate to disturb you, but we need to get you to sit up in the bed.”

  Thalia watched as Aunt Dorcas and the doctor arranged Maximilian in bed.

  “Before we finish making the tent, I want to give him some bicarbonate of soda.” The doctor prepared the medicine and handed the glass to Maximilian. “Drink this right up.”

  Maximilian took the glass without hesitation and drank a swallow, then grimaced.

  The doctor seemed amused but consoling. “I know it doesn’t taste good, but it should help you. If you drink it fast, you won’t taste it very long.”

  Thalia felt sorry for Maximilian as he obeyed then let out a burp.

  The doctor smiled. “See, it’s already helping some.”

  He glanced toward the two women. “Pardon my faux pas.”

  Thalia smiled at him. “Think nothing of it.”

  She watched as the doctor and her aunt made a tent for Maximilian out of the sheets, using boiling water poured in the bowl for steam.

  “Breathe in as much steam as you can,” the doctor advised while taking his pulse. “Try to relax but don’t fall asleep. And if you get too hot inside there, let us know. We can raise one corner of the sheet so you can have some fresh air.”

  Thalia hadn’t expected such an elaborate remedy. Seeing the patient covered in such a way increased her anxiety. Once Maximilian was settled, she couldn’t wait to ask the doctor his opinion. Seeking more reassurances, she motioned to him to step outside the door with her so the patient wouldn’t overhear what was said. “Will—will he be okay?”

  “I hope so.”

  Her stomach lurched. “You—you hope so? You mean, you don’t know?”

  “Most allergic reactions cause more discomfort and inconvenience than any real harm, but there is the possibility that the allergy could develop into something more serious, especially since he had such a severe reaction so quickly.”

  “You—you don’t think he could …” She didn’t want to say the word, but she had to. “Die?”

  “I’m hoping for the best.”

  His noncommittal answer left her with more anxiety. No matter how much he had hurt her, Maximilian couldn’t die. He just couldn’t.

  Thalia’s gaze went to the window at the end of the hall. The night sky was almost white with falling snow.

  Chapter 4

  Alone in bed with only sounds of the crackling fire and his labored breathing to break the silence, Maximilian tried to take in as much air as possible. The feeling of suffocation left him fearful. He had to summon the will to keep going. Though oppressive, the steam did open his throat.

  Thank you, Lord, that Dr. Stanton was here.

  Contemplating his predicament, he didn’t know whether to feel foolish or angry. All those years ago, Norma had told him Thalia didn’t love him, but even now, she wouldn’t play a mean trick on him by slipping rhubarb into strawberry preserve tarts. He could see by her unmitigated shock at his sudden illness that she didn’t know he was allergic to the fruit. Then again, rhubarb wasn’t a common ingredient in foods he ate, so even Norma never witnessed what effect the fruit could have on him.

  There was no one to blame but himself. He should have asked before he ate any red-colored confection. He thought he had tasted something a bit different in the tart, delicious though it had been. If only he had possessed the foresight to stop eating when he had a chance. Maybe one bite wouldn’t have been as devastating as two entire tarts. Then again, he had let Edith distract him with her prattle.

  He could play the blame game, but it wouldn’t change a thing. Without thinking, he had eaten the tarts, and now he was paying. Paying dearly. He could only pr
ay he wouldn’t pay with his life.

  Three soft raps at the door got his attention.

  “Maximilian?” Thalia’s voice sounded sweet, concerned. He wished he hadn’t ruined her party by becoming ill and disrupting the fun. “May I come in?”

  He considered how he must look and what she must think of him, lying limp underneath sheets, breathing in and out laboriously like some kind of fiend. He hated for Thalia to see him in such a state. Surely every sign pointed to California—first the flat tire, the near miss with the black cat crossing his path, the spilled pepper, and now this horrid illness. But now that the signs seemed so clear, he wished he could stay in Colorado. Maybe then he could change her mind.

  Unwilling to let pride stand in the way of seeing Thalia, he uttered a response. “Yes. You may come in.”

  The soft swishing of a skirt marked each of her steps. Recalling how she looked earlier that evening, he pictured her in a pink party dress, resembling a bouquet of delicate spring roses in defiance of the snow outside.

  “How’s the patient by now?” The expression in her voice sounded blithe. He wondered if she was putting on an act for him.

  “Do I seem to be all right? No, don’t answer that.” He took in another breath and tried to swallow in spite of his tightening throat.

  “Don’t try to say anything. We can talk later. Just relax,” she instructed.

  New footfalls announced someone else’s arrival.

  “Thalia, let me take care of this,” he heard Dorcas say. “You don’t need to be in here playing nursemaid while you have other guests to attend to.”

  “Thank you, but it’s all my fault this happened, and I’ll take care of him. Anyway, everyone else is pretty tired. It’s late, and I think they’d like to go to bed.”

  “No doubt. Thankfully we have enough guest rooms to accommodate everyone, although I do believe you should bunk with Rose tonight.”

  “She won’t have a roommate. I’ll be here. I can sleep on the chaise lounge.”