A Momentary Marriage

by Candace Camp

  “It may present as a catarrh-like illness,” her father had written. Upper respiratory symptoms—fever, chills, shortness of breath, pleuritic chest pain. Heart palpitations. Insomnia. Headaches. Tremors. Confusion . . . memory loss . . . irritability.

  Laura drew in her breath, her hands trembling. They were all right there. Symptoms easily mistaken for other diseases, neurological indications that could be taken for the effects of a brain tumor. It was an uncommon illness, not a disease but poison, and unless one had treated hatters—an unlikely patient for doctors accustomed to treating the wealthy and the peerage—a physician would not have encountered it.

  Squinting in the lamplight to read the faded ink, she followed her father’s accounts of “hatters’ shakes,” vivid dreams and hallucinations, even delusions. The symptoms were apparently many and varied, and not all the men had exhibited the same ones. She was grateful James had not experienced them all, but it made her heart squeeze in her chest to think of him suffering so needlessly.

  Anger burned in her at the idea of someone purposely doing this to him. But that, too, she had to put aside. What she needed to focus on now was making sure that the monster didn’t achieve his goal.

  Tears glittered in her eyes as she read her father’s closing remarks on several of the cases: patient deceased. But not all of them. Laura took hope from the fact that it seemed that those who had suffered a brief exposure, even if it was severe, recovered more quickly and completely than the men who had breathed in the vapor at a low level for years.

  She skimmed the pages, looking for her father’s discussion of treatments. It seemed that little had sped up the recovery beyond removing them from the toxic fumes. But surely James, a strong, young, healthy man, would have a better chance of recovering than many of the men her father had treated.

  But here . . . she stopped and read more slowly. Her father said he had had some success with administering milk thistle. Popping up, she went to the medical bag she had set on the floor by the bed and looked through it until she found a small bottle of milk thistle. Measuring out the brown liquid, she noted with concern that there was not much left.

  It took some effort, but she managed to get the liquid down James. He began to talk in his sleep, his voice so soft and slurred she couldn’t make out the words. Then he stopped and opened his eyes and said, “Laura.”

  “Yes. It’s I.”

  “Lovely Laura.” He closed his eyes. His forehead was damp, a faint flush along his cheekbones, and she knew he was feverish again.

  Laura bathed his face with cool water, and as she worked, she wondered what to do. Her supply of milk thistle would soon run out. She had to get more. But first, she knew, she must sleep. She was too tired to think clearly.

  Demosthenes had been restlessly pacing about. Laura led him to the door of her room. Pointing to the floor, she said firmly, “Guard.”

  Dem gazed at her for a long moment, then sprawled out in the hallway across the door. With one of his long-suffering sighs, he laid his head on his paws. Laura bent down to pat him, pleased that he had obeyed her. She felt much safer with the mastiff on watch. Closing the door and locking it made her feel even safer.

  She checked on James once more and found him cooler. Laura thought of sleeping in the chair beside her window, but it was a dainty chair not given to comfort. She was too tired to care about the proprieties. She lay down beside James on the bed and immediately sank into sleep.

  chapter 17

  A loud bark outside her door brought Laura out of a deep sleep, and she shot out of bed. Memory flooded back as she threw on her dressing gown and hurried to open the door.

  Demosthenes was standing staring down the hallway, his gaze intent on Walter, who hovered outside James’s open door. Though the mastiff had not showed his teeth nor even raised his hackles, his warning bark was enough to freeze Walter where he stood.

  “L-Laura!” Walter turned his panicked face to her. “Where’s James? What’s happened? He’s not—he’s not—”

  “No, no,” Laura hastened to assure him. “We moved him into my room.”

  “Oh.” Walter relaxed.

  Laura reached down to pat Dem, murmuring, “Good boy. It’s all right.”

  Another door opened down the hall and Claude stuck his head out, frowning, then went back inside. At the end of the hall, Laura saw Owen walking toward them, carrying a tray.

  “I woke up early,” Walter said, coming over to Laura, though he kept a wary eye on the mastiff. “I wanted to see how James was.”

  “Of course.” Laura opened the door wider, stepping back. “Come in. But I fear he isn’t awake.”

  Demosthenes took the opportunity to go to the bed and give James a nudge with his nose. James muttered something that might have been, “Good Dem,” and rolled over on his side. Apparently satisfied, the dog padded back to Laura.

  Walter didn’t enter the room, just hung in the doorway, staring across at his brother. “Why is he here? I don’t understand.”

  “I spilled water on the bed last night.” Laura told him the story she had concocted, hoping that by the light of day it still sounded reasonable. Between him and Owen, who had come up behind Walter, the word would be all over the house in minutes. “I think we may remain for a while. It’s easier for me to care for him here.”

  Walter didn’t question her words, merely nodded. “Is he . . . any better?”

  “He’s holding his own.” In Laura’s opinion, it was better that the others in the house knew as little as possible about James’s condition or her efforts.

  As long as the would-be murderer thought James was at death’s door, surely he wouldn’t try to do him further harm. It was difficult to picture Walter, the youngest and mildest of the de Veres, plotting to kill James, but she wasn’t about to let down her guard.

  Owen slipped past the other man to set the tray on the dresser. “I brought you a bite of breakfast, ma’am. I’ll take Demosthenes out now, if you like.”

  “Thank you, Owen.”

  Walter finally moved into the room, though he stopped at the foot of the bed. Laura followed Owen and the dog into the hall. Keeping an eye on Walter, she said in a quiet voice, “Owen, I need you to stay with James for a while when you return with Dem. James asked me to talk to his aunt.” She was becoming frighteningly adept at lying.

  “Yes, ma’am. Shall I have the carriage brought round?”

  Laura nodded and went back into the room. Walter still stood at the foot of the bed, watching James. He turned toward her and summoned a smile. “I mustn’t keep you from your breakfast. I only wanted to see how he was doing this morning.”

  After Walter left, Laura closed the door and crossed to James’s bed. James opened his eyes. “Laura.” His gaze went beyond her to the tester above him and he frowned, twisting his head to glance around. “Where—oh.” He relaxed. “This is your room.” He paused, his eyes narrowing. “We—we moved in here in the middle of the night.”

  “Yes, we did. So you remember.”

  He nodded. “You were—did you say someone wanted to kill me? Was that a dream?”

  “No. It wasn’t a dream.”

  “But how . . . why . . .” He frowned, raising a hand to rub his forehead.

  “Mercury. They placed some under your bed. And it was in your tonic. You were breathing it in with every treatment.”

  “I can’t . . . I can’t think. Damn!” He pushed himself up. “I’m so bloody useless, Laura.” He took her arm. “You must be careful.”

  “Don’t worry. I haven’t let on that I discovered the mercury; I said you moved in here because I spilled water on your bed. We’re safely away from the poison, and Demosthenes will stand guard at the door.” She took his hand between both of hers. “All you have to do is get better.”

  “I’m not sure I can.”

  “You can. You must.” She leaned in closer, staring into his eyes. “James, I need you. You have to get better and help me figure this out. I’m all
alone here, and you can’t leave me.” One thing she had learned about James in the past few days was his overriding sense of responsibility.

  He gazed at her for a long moment. “I won’t.”

  “Good. Now take this medicine.” She mixed a measure of milk thistle with a tiny amount of water.

  “What is it?”

  “Bitter.”

  “Of course.” There was a glimmer of his old self in his eyes.

  “It’s milk thistle. My father used it with success.” Her father had always said that medicine worked better with belief.

  He swallowed it without protest. It was harder work getting him to drink any of the cup of broth Owen had brought for him, but she managed that as well. Laura couldn’t bring herself to eat anything. Her stomach was too tied up in knots. Going into her dressing room, she changed clothes, then sat down before the mirror to put her hair into some rudimentary order.

  By the time she was ready, Owen was waiting on a bench in the hall, Demosthenes in his usual place. The dog made his routine check on James before returning to his spot at the door. Laura leaned over James, checking a last time for fever.

  “James, I’m going to see about more medicine. I’ll be gone for a bit, but Owen will be here with you. He’ll take care of you.” His eyes didn’t open; she couldn’t tell if he was asleep. Fear tugged at her stomach. What if his life slipped away while she was gone? “I’ll be back as soon as I can. And Dem is outside the door.” Impulsively she bent and pressed her lips to his forehead.

  “Please sit with him, Owen,” she said as she pulled on her gloves. At his quick nod, she went on, “It’s best if he sleeps. You might want to close the door to, um, shut out any noise.” And discourage visitors.

  It was a lovely spring day, but Laura was too wrapped in her worrisome thoughts to look at the view outside the carriage. It was much too early to be making a call, but that social solecism weighed little compared to seeking help from the wife of the man Laura had loved for much of her life.

  Laura liked Abby. Indeed, when they had met by accident, unaware of who the other was, they had chatted like good friends. Abigail seemed a reasonable, fair person, but the heart didn’t always follow one’s head.

  No matter how much Graeme loved his wife now, it did not change the fact that the first years of their marriage had been bitter—and his thwarted love for Laura was the reason he had turned away from his new bride. Any woman would find that hard to forgive.

  So it was with some trepidation that Laura entered the front door of Lydcombe Hall. The Parr family’s imperturbable butler, Fletcher, gave no indication that he found such an early morning visit odd, merely bowed and said, “Miss Laura. Lady de Vere, I should say. We are most grieved at the news of Sir James’s illness. Lady Montclair—Lady Mirabelle, that is—is still abed, but I will tell her you are here.”

  “No, it’s not Mirabelle I’ve come to see. It’s Abigail.” Laura hesitated. “If, that is, you think she would not mind.”

  Something like a smile lurked in the butler’s eyes. “Indeed, Lady Abigail is, ah, quite at ease with informality.”

  Laura followed him upstairs to the sunny sitting room overlooking the rose garden. Within moments, Abigail rushed into the room. She was still clad in her dressing gown, a dramatic blue satin robe reminiscent of a Japanese kimono, richly embroidered, her black hair hanging in a loose braid down her back. In her arms, she carried a small bundle.

  It was impossible not to be struck anew by the other woman’s beauty. Tall and statuesque, with vivid green eyes and thick black hair, Abigail Parr was stunning. But now her face was creased with concern as she said, “Laura? What’s happened? Is James—”

  “No! Oh, Abigail, no. I’m sorry; I didn’t think. I should have told Fletcher that James is . . . not worse. I didn’t come here about—well, I did, but—oh—” She raised her hands to her face and realized they were trembling. “I’m sorry. I’m not making sense.”

  “Come, sit down. You must be terribly distressed. I’ll ring for tea. Or would you like coffee? The staff has given in to my American love for coffee.”

  As she came closer, the bundle emitted a squeak and stirred, and Laura saw that the object in Abigail’s arms was a baby wrapped in a blanket. An arm emerged, knocking back the blanket to reveal the rest of her. “Oh! I didn’t realize. Is this—”

  “Anna,” Abigail said, beaming, and turned, tilting her so that Laura could see the infant better.

  “My goodness.” Laura peered down into the perfect features. All white and pink and dimpled, with a thick shock of black hair and huge blue eyes, the baby stared back up at Laura. “She’s beautiful.”

  “Would you like to hold her?” Abby extended her toward Laura.

  “Could I?” A smile lit Laura’s face. “Oh, yes, if you don’t mind.” Laura settled the baby carefully into the crook of one arm, brushing a finger across Anna’s petal-soft cheeks. “Such black hair . . . and those eyes. Graeme must be over the moon.”

  Abigail chuckled. “He is already tightly wrapped around her little finger. I’m certain he’ll be the most doting father ever.”

  “I can see why.” The girl took a firm hold on Laura’s dress, making cooing noises. Laura bent her head closer, breathing in the sweet scent of baby. “She looks like you.”

  “Do you think so? Graeme says she does, but I can’t see it—except for the hair, of course, but Graeme and his mother have dark hair, too.”

  “Yes, but . . . I can’t identify it, really, but there’s something of you in her little face.” Laura raised her head, smiling at the other woman, and received a warm smile in return. Perhaps talking to Abigail would not be as hard as she feared.

  At that moment, the baby’s nurse bustled in to take Anna back to the nursery for a change, and Laura handed her over somewhat reluctantly. The butler, with his usual efficiency, had not waited for Abby to request refreshments, but swept in now with a tray of coffee, tea, and rolls.

  Laura, unable to eat anything before she left, was suddenly starving. Abigail sipped a cup of coffee, waiting until Laura had consumed an air-light croissant before she spoke. “I’m glad to hear that James is not worse. But something must be amiss.”

  “Yes. I’m very sorry to barge in like this so early, but I—” Laura drew a shaky breath. “I need help.”

  “What can I do?” Abigail set down her coffee and leaned forward. “What do you need?”

  “I think—I fear someone is trying to harm James.” Abby gaped at her, and Laura rushed on, suddenly fearing that Abby would not believe her. “I found mercury in James’s medicine.”

  “Mercury?” Abby looked even more astonished. “Quicksilver?”

  “Yes. Do you know anything about it?”

  “My father owned part of a quicksilver mine in California. I think they used it to extract gold from the ore.”

  “There have been doctors who prescribed it for some ailments. But not for a cough. I dropped a bottle of his tonic, and there was mercury in the liquid. That’s not all.” Her story poured out—the discovery of the pan beneath James’s bed, Laura’s fears, her father’s cases. “It’s very dangerous; one only has to breathe the vapors. It doesn’t even have to be heated.”

  Laura finally wound down, the knot in her chest that had been her companion the past few hours loosening. Abby at first said nothing, still gazing at her in amazement.

  “I know this must sound mad,” Laura told her. “But I promise I am perfectly sane. Someone deliberately set out to harm James.”

  “No, I have no doubt about your sanity,” Abby assured her. “It’s just hard to take it all in.” She straightened. “The two of you should come here. No one could get to him here.”

  “Thank you. You’re very kind. But I’m afraid to move him. He is . . .” Tears glistened in Laura’s eyes. “James is very ill. I put him in a different room, and Demosthenes guards the door.”

  “That should discourage any attacker.” Abby smiled. “What can you do for
him—will he recover?”

  “I don’t know. Some of my father’s patients died, and others didn’t. My father used milk thistle, and he thought it helped speed recovery. That’s why I came to you. To ask you to purchase some for me. I have a little, but I need much more.”

  “I will, of course, but I don’t understand. Why not send a servant to the village? Wouldn’t the apothecary have it?”

  “That’s where his tonic came from.”

  “Ohhh.” Abby’s brows rose in understanding. “You suspect the apothecary of adding the poison?”

  “I suspect everyone in the house, but I cannot rule out the apothecary. I fear if I bought it or sent a servant or, well, anyone in the house, the man would reason that it was for James, and if he is the person who contaminated the medicine, he might taint it, as well. But you are far enough removed that I don’t think he would assume you were buying it for James. Also . . . I don’t want anyone at Grace Hill to know about it.”

  Abby nodded. “I understand. I’ll go there this morning. As soon as I have it, I’ll come to call on you and Tessa. That would seem natural, don’t you think? I’ll bring Mirabelle with me.”

  “But you won’t tell her, will you?”

  “No. I won’t breathe a word of it. It would upset her greatly, and she would be bound to tell her sister. I must tell Graeme, though.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “He will be back before long. I wired him about James’s condition, and he wired back immediately that he was returning. But Lady Eugenia insists on coming with him.”

  “The dowager countess?” Laura stared. “Why?”

  “I don’t know; I suppose she tyrannized James as well when he and Graeme were boys.”

  Laura half smiled. “I suspect she had a bit less success with James.”

  “No doubt. Anyway, she’s got it in her head to come, and so of course he had to wait another day for her. Doubtless when I tell him, Graeme will want to charge over there and have at someone.”