Tony remembered bringing over new horses. George would run his hands over the animal’s mane and down the smooth glossy coat as though able to feel its health and temperament through his fingertips. Later, they would go out to the field and watch the horse’s movement and gait.
George refused to be hurried. He’d ask the groom to lead the animal around the paddock, watching with narrowed eyes until Tony felt bored and stiff. Then, just when Tony had feared he must fall asleep, George would straighten, nod and say with sudden decisiveness, ‘That one’s a keeper.’
Tony always wondered what differentiated that final walk from all the rest. Then they’d have a ride or, if it was late, walk up to the house to see Elsie. On occasion, if the weather was suitable, they’d grab a fishing rod.
Time with George had always felt pleasant and somehow lessened that restless spirit which had been a part of him since childhood.
Tentatively, Tony leaned back within the comfortable chair, as he had done so many times with George. His eyes closed. It was, he thought, one of the first times he’d allowed himself to remember not only the man’s death but his life. It seemed that his memory had bounced between the boy and the corpse.
But never the man.
* * *
The door opened, banging and crashing against the wall. Elsie tumbled inwards.
‘Tony!’ Her face was white, her hair wild and she wore only her nightgown.
‘My God—what is it?’ He stood up from the chair, hurrying to his sister as she seemed likely to collapse.
‘Theodore—I was right. He is sick. Within a half-hour, his fever has worsened. It has gone up so quickly. Indeed, he’s burning up.’ She ran to Tony. Tears tracked down her cheeks. She reached forward, holding his arm with tight, desperate fingers. ‘I can’t lose him. I can’t lose him. I’ve lost George. I can’t lose him, too.’
He saw the desperation in her wide blue eyes. ‘Have you sent for the doctor?’
‘Yes, I just sent for Jeffers, but he has not come yet. Maybe if you go, you can explain. And make him come, except the servants think he might be out of town. And I don’t know what to do.’
For a moment, it seemed time froze. He could feel his mind work as he interpreted this rush of words. Through the open door, he heard a child’s cry, peppered with coughs. It was getting quite late in the day. He had become immersed both in memories and in estate business which should have been done weeks ago.
Beside him, his sister stood with her white face and hands so desperately clenched against his arm.
He thought of George. He thought of Jeffers’s amiable countenance, reddened with drink. He thought of Miss Barton.
It is a need, as strong in me as movement or communication... I took an oath... I helped a child...
It was crazy. She was crazy. And she was brilliant.
‘I’ll get help,’ he said. ‘I’ll get Dr Hatfield.’
* * *
Jester sprang through the dark night. Tony hunkered down, ignoring the pain that still shuddered through his side. It was a clear night and he knew the woods well. He pushed Jester fast so that they thundered down the narrow pathway as fast as was safe. Branches snapped his face and he ducked to avoid low-hanging boughs.
The silence was profound, broken only by the thud of hooves, the crack of breaking twigs and the hurried beat of his own heart.
His nephew was a week old. Not even—six days. And he’d spent so little time with him. Of course, men don’t spend time with babies. And yet, was this his reasoning? Was he ruled by society’s custom or was he ruled by fear.
He’d worried that he would love again and lose.
Except loss might happen anyway.
And if Teddy died—he stumbled against the word—if he died he’d curse himself. He’d curse himself that he had not held the tiny hand more often. He’d curse himself that he had not sat in the dark and listened to the soft rhythm of his baby breath or watched the wave of that minute hand conducting an invisible orchestra.
There was no escape from pain. No guarantees.
* * *
It was not a long ride—an hour at most. But it seemed endless. Every second felt like a minute and every minute interminable.
At last he broke out of the copse and Jester gathered speed, cantering smoothly down the dirt road sandwiched between fields and farms. He felt raw, cut open, bleeding and hopeless. He saw images of George and the other men who haunted his dreams. Sometimes, dead faces appeared within the moonlight’s spectral shadows. That same frustrated impotence that he’d felt on the battlefield filled him. ‘What ifs’ rotated through his mind. What if Letty could not help Theodore? What if he died before she came? What if she wouldn’t come? What if she couldn’t help the little boy any more than he could help the brave men?
The questions swirled. And all the while he was haunted by the infant’s bright eyes turning dark...sightless...
Leaning forward, he angled his body as though, by doing so, he was measurably closer to his destination. Every movement hurt. Perspiration prickled his head and neck.
At last, the village neared. On either side, he could make out the grey shapes of the farm houses and barns, now clustered more closely. Under Jester’s hooves, the dirt road turned to cobbles and the noise of the animal’s footsteps made a clipped sound, no longer muted by the dirt road.
The small house stood on the right. One light glimmered from a lower window.
Jerking Jester to a halt, he swung off, pushing through the gate and hurrying up the path. Raising his fist, he hammered on the door. The noise was loud, reverberating through the quiet street.
He held his breath. It felt as though his heart had stopped and, in that moment, he had an awful, absolute certainty that Letty was away.
The door opened. Letty stood within the portal, backlit by the lamp within the hallway.
A huge speechless relief washed over him.
Chapter Eleven
‘Lord Anthony,’ Letty gasped.
He was staring at her wildly. A confused anger mixed with fear flashed through her. She felt an almost physical weakness as though the sudden impact of his presence made her own knees wobble.
She gripped the door frame more tightly. She refused to go weak at the knees over a judgemental, inebriated aristocrat who had likely come merely to hurl accusations at her head.
‘You forgot a pertinent insult? Indeed, now it is you who look mad. Are you in your cups?’ she asked tartly.
‘Letty—’ There was a desperation in his tone which made her study him with new focus and narrowed gaze.
Sweat beaded on his forehead and upper lip. His face was grey, his exhalations quick.
‘Tony? Come in. What is it? What’s wrong?’
‘The baby,’ he said, his voice ragged. ‘He has a high fever and is coughing. Please, she can’t lose him. I can’t lose him.’
‘I’m so sorry—’
‘You’ll come. You’ll come despite what I said?’ he asked.
‘Of course I will come,’ she said. ‘I will just get my bag.’
‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘Rest while I get everything I might need. I will ask Sarah to bring you food and water.’
He nodded. He sank into the straight-backed chair within the hall, his exhaustion visible within every line of his slumped body.
‘Will you change?’
She paused, uncertain.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Let us not introduce any delay. I’ll just get my bag and any draughts I might require.’
‘Thank you.’ His pain and hopelessness seemed almost palpable and her heart hurt for him. Standing on the first rung of the stairs, she glanced back at him.
‘And, Tony, I will do everything possible.’
* * *
They rode in silence. Jester was spent and they’d lef
t him with Arnold. They’d debated about getting a horse from the inn, but had decided that it would be as quick to take Archimedes. This animal, spurred by Tony’s use of the stirrups, moved at a faster pace than his usual rolling gait, his tail flicking behind him in irritation.
Letty rode in front of Tony. It was quicker to take the horse than the trap.
She was conscious of his solid strength. She felt his muscled chest behind her, the firmness of his arm and the hardness of his thighs tight about her. She catalogued the sensations.
At some time, she thought, when she was not so worried, she would want to feel this. She would want to remember the soft thud of hooves, the night air softly perfumed with the woodsy scent of bark and moss and branches darkly outlined against the starry sky.
And she would remember that he had needed her. He valued her, not only as a woman, but as a doctor.
Finally, they broke out of the forest shadows and into Beauchamp’s park. The lanterns were lit, strung along the curved driveway and casting bright pools of light. At its end, she saw the dark shape of the house, its walls punctuated with yellow lamplight.
Now that they had arrived, the urgency returned also, growing huge. Anxiety dampened her palms, tightening the muscles in her shoulders and neck and keeping her worried gaze fixed on the house.
The second Archimedes stopped, she swung off, landing lightly on the drive and almost running up the steps to the dark lacquered door.
It opened instantly. Dobson stood in the portal, his silhouette darkly outlined against the lamplight.
‘Any news?’ Tony asked.
The man shook his head.
Without pause, they ran inside and up the steps which hugged the wall, leading to the second storey.
‘This way,’ Tony said, pushing open the nursery door.
The room was hot. The fire had been stoked so that the flames were high, flickering and crackling up into the chimney. The window was tightly closed. The crib stood in the centre of the room and Elsie, her maid and an old woman, likely the nanny, clustered about it.
‘Letty? What? Why are you here?’ Elsie asked, her worried puzzled gaze resting on Tony.
There was a pause, a brief moment of silence.
‘Because she is the best,’ he said.
‘He’s having fits! He’s having fits!’ the maid suddenly screamed.
Letty pushed through only to be blocked by the nanny’s stout form. ‘Miss Barton? Where’s Dr Jeffers?’
‘Let her through!’ Tony said.
‘But, sir—’
‘Now.’
Letty bent over Theodore. He was, indeed, having fits. The infant was tightly swaddled. His face was red and his breathing laboured. She noted also an unnatural twitching and stiffening racking his small body.
Reaching down, she loosened the tightly wrapped blankets, feeling his hot, tiny body as she did so.
‘How long has he been twitching?’
‘’E just started, miss,’ the maid said.
‘The seizure is caused by his temperature. He is very hot so our first job is to decrease his temperature. I want the window opened and the fire doused. Then we will give him a sponge bath. I want a basin of lukewarm water. Not hot.’
‘Really, I do not think that any of this will help—’ the nanny started to say.
‘Then your presence isn’t needed here. I do not have the time or energy to convince you so you would be better off leaving,’ Letty retorted.
* * *
Letty, the maid Maria, and Elsie worked together with single-minded concentration. Letty made herself focus only on the child, refusing to look at Elsie’s pale face and haunted eyes. Together they sponged off Teddy’s hot body while giving him a tincture of elder and yarrow, delivered via a tiny silver teaspoon. The fire was doused and downstairs the cook stoked the fire and heated huge kettles of water. This was poured into huge steaming bowls which were brought up by the maids and distributed about the room so that the windows and looking glass became foggy with steam.
Thankfully, the seizures had stopped, but Teddy was still too hot. Despite the steam, he coughed with that awful dry hack, typical of whooping cough. Too often he seemed to lose his breath, his tiny body convulsing as he fought for air. At these times, his face turned a bright-red colour, close to purple, while his lips looked almost blue and his body shook with the violence of the cough.
And then he would gulp in the air. His colour would return and Letty would breathe again.
* * *
The hours merged. Night turned into day and day back into night. Letty worked without respite. With endless patience, she put water on to a spoon, gently easing it between the child’s lips. Elsie tried to nurse him, but the coughs too often racked his tiny body so that he vomited the fluid, the smell of sour milk scenting the room already filled with sweat.
‘I wish he could keep something down,’ Elsie said, looking at Letty with eyes which looked much too big for her face. ‘He will starve.’
‘He still has tears and is not without fluid. And he is getting more respite from the coughing. He will not starve.’
Occasionally, Elsie would lie down in the small chamber attached to the nursery, but she never ventured to her own room. Nor did she really sleep, always jerking awake at any sound from the child. Indeed, she only agreed to rest because Letty said that Theodore would need his mother’s strength and energy throughout his recovery.
As for Tony, he would look in, his face a pitiful mix of hope and fear. Sometimes, he’d coax them out to eat, but they’d take little more than soup or tea before returning to the nursery.
Of course, a bedchamber had been provided for Letty, but she went there infrequently, lying down for little more than an hour. More often she fell asleep in the nursery, propped up against the chair.
* * *
It was sometime on the third or fourth night that the fever broke. Letty must have fallen sleep because she jumped, disoriented at Elsie’s scream.
‘What?’ She leapt up from the chair, leaning over the cot while still half-asleep.
‘I cannot hear him breathe. And he feels so cool,’ Elsie said. ‘Is he...? Is he...?’
She couldn’t say the word, instead fixing Letty with huge, fearful eyes. The room was lit only by candle and its flickering light emphasised the hollows and shadows marking her face.
With a pounding heart, Letty reached forward. The child was cool, but not cold. She felt his breath against her hand and saw the restful look of healthy sleep.
She smiled, joy pulsing through her. ‘He is breathing. He is breathing normally. The fever—it has broken.’
‘You mean...?’ Elsie stared at her.
‘I think he should recover.’
* * *
They sat together until dawn broke and the room became lit with the early sunlight. By then, Letty was quite certain Teddy was well on the way to recovery. He was breathing well and coughing much less frequently and never with that awful breathlessness, as though his breath had been taken and could not be regained.
Hungry once more, Elsie was able to nurse him and though he coughed a bit, he was able to ingest some fluid and then fall asleep, snuggled at her breast.
‘Thank you,’ she whispered, looking over Teddy’s tiny, damp, blond curls. ‘Thank you.’
‘Get some rest,’ Letty said. ‘You both need it. I will tell the servants to keep steaming the room.’
Exhausted, Letty stepped into the corridor. Tony was waiting for her. ‘He’s better?’
‘Yes.’
‘May I see them?’
‘Of course.’
‘I have asked that the maid bring some food to your bedchamber and then you must rest,’ he said.
‘That is considerate.’ Almost too exhausted to remain vertical, to place one foot after the other as she navigated the
hallway.
‘And thank you,’ he said.
* * *
Letty stood on the terrace, propping her elbows on the stone balustrade and gazing into the garden. She was conscious of the evening air. She had slept close to ten hours straight and day had turned to night.
September was approaching. The air had that cool, crisp autumnal feel, different from summer’s heat. A few leaves had fallen and moved across the grey flagstones in tiny, rustling, spiralling swirls.
There was a full moon. Its light shimmered on an ornamental pond, illuminating the bushes and trees with silvery radiance. She wondered how many days had passed since Teddy had first been taken ill. The moon had not been full when she’d arrived. At least, she didn’t think it had. It should be easy enough to remember, she thought. But her mind still felt dull, muddled as though still hazy with sleep.
She felt his presence, even before she heard his footsteps. It was in the quickening of her breath. It was in the exquisite sensitivity of her every nerve and in the goosebumps prickling her arms and neck, which had nothing to do with September’s chill.
He stood beside her, also leaning against the stone balustrade, tall in his lanky, big-boned way. He was close, but not so near that they physically touched. Yet her awareness of him could not have been greater. It made her breathing quicken and her pulse race.
Glancing sideways, she saw that he had no jacket and had rolled up his shirtsleeves. He’d placed his hands on the balustrade and she could see the muscles in his forearm. For once, the glove had been removed and his injured hand was visible. Distorted by flame, the skin was stretched painfully across the bones.
A Debutante in Disguise Page 19