Her Muse, Her Magic

by Jane Charles

  “Who are you?”

  She smiled but said nothing.

  “Are you a maid?”

  Her smile grew wide, eyes crinkling as she shook her head.

  “A relation of Braden and Quent?”

  She frowned and studied him. Did she not know who his hosts were? Why was she here if she didn’t know them? Did she not understand the question?

  “Who are you?”

  She brought a finger to her lips as if to shush him.

  It didn’t really matter who she was. Her coolness brought relief to his fevered brow. She stroked his cheek with her other hand and Blake sighed.

  His eyes grew heavy again, but Blake didn’t want to return to sleep yet. He had a beautiful woman in his chamber, not that he was in any position to take advantage of the situation, but he feared if he slept she would be gone when he awoke.

  She moved her hand across his eyes and they closed against Blake’s will. A moment later, cool air touched his lips.

  Brighid stepped onto the drive leading to Marisdùn Castle. Today had not gone as planned. Daphne Alcott was not at home so she was unable to obtain the rum butter for which she had come. Then, she was nearly run over by the horse Dr. Alcott was riding when he tore out of the street leading from the mews. Further, there were rumors that the new owner had taken up residence at Marisdùn Castle. She saw no one about, nor were there carriages in the drive, so Brighid made her way to the back door that led to the kitchens.

  If the staff was busy due to the new arrivals she would simply leave the herbs and return later, though she dearly wished for a cup of tea before beginning her trek back to her grandmother’s cottage. That woman grew more difficult with each day she aged and there were times Brighid wished to leave the house and live somewhere else. To do so would require marriage, but there was no one in either Tolbright or Ravenglass she wished to wed. Nor were any of the villages’ bachelors appearing on her doorstep. Too many of them thought as Blake Chetwey did. They feared she was a witch. She simply knew the proper uses of herbs and relied on intuition at times. It was nothing more. It couldn’t be more than that. Unfortunately, these talents would likely leave her a spinster, without a daughter to pass her knowledge onto.

  She lifted her hand and knocked on the door. It creaked open a moment later to reveal a kitchen maid who brightened upon seeing Brighid.

  “Oh, I am so glad you are here.” The maid stepped back allowing Brighid to enter. “We were just about to send for you.”

  Alarm shot through Brighid. “Is someone ill or injured?” She placed her basket on the table, mentally reviewing the plants that were already dried in the herbarium and what could be harvested from the garden.

  “A gentleman who arrived with the new owner has taken quite ill.”

  Brighid shrugged off her cape and laid it on the back of a chair. “Has Dr. Alcott been summoned?”

  “He is only a doctor,” Cook snorted. “You are better qualified to handle the illness.”

  She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Many of the older people in Ravenglass were superstitious and often called upon her instead of Dr. Alcott, who was perfectly capable of treating their ills, far better than she. “What are the gentleman’s symptoms?”

  “Shivering, but he also has a high fever. Miss Alcott was here earlier to fill in for her brother,” Cook added.

  Brighid bit her bottom lip. That explained why Daphne had not been at home. But, had her brother been on his way here when she had seen him? “Did Miss Alcott give him anything?”

  “Dover’s Powder.”

  Brighid nodded. It would help with the symptoms. “Do you know anything else about his illness? Is he coughing? Vomiting?”

  The young maid shrugged.

  “Someone said it is malaria,” Cook answered.

  Brighid stilled. She only knew of one person with that illness and because of that acquaintance, had researched the many options for treatment. “What is his name?”

  “Mr. Blake Chetwey,” Mrs. Small, the housekeeper, announced from the entrance to the kitchens.

  The breath left Brighid’s lungs. Blake was ill and she was going to take care of him whether he liked it or not. He could call her a witch with each breath, but she would not allow him to suffer further. She certainly wouldn’t allow him to die. Just because he survived the first attack after the insect bite didn’t mean he couldn’t still die with each subsequent episode, and that she would not allow. “Please boil water, Cook.”

  A shiver ran up her spine as she pulled the Wormwood from her basket. Nobody need know of her earlier premonition or they might begin to believe she really was a witch.

  She fingered the small cross at her neck. She was not a witch.

  Blake woke again, unsure how long he had been asleep. The young woman was no longer at his bedside. Instead a man, younger than himself, stood where she had once been. He appeared tall, at least from Blake’s view from the bed, with dark hair. Was that Dr. Alcott? He strained to see the man’s face more clearly. It was. Well, not the Dr. Alcott who had treated him as a boy. This was his son. Wasn’t Alcott a bit young to be a doctor?

  “Ah, I see you have awakened,” the man said.

  Blake struggled to sit, but his head and body protested at the movement. His stomach churned and sweat broke out across his brow. The worst part of this illness was the vomiting. He would take week-long, excruciating headaches over a day of vomiting.

  “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.

  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. Alcott’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.”

  Blake opened his eyes to a darkened room. The only light came from the dying embers in the fire. “What time is it?” He strained his eyes, looking about, but there was no clock that he could see. Though he ached, he wasn’t in near as much pain he had been before Brighid had given him the tea. Not that he would ever admit as much to her.