Hopefully, it wouldn’t take her longer than ten minutes to make her way down to the service door. If any servant saw her speaking to Master Whiteley, she’d brazen it out or bribe them. But she just had to find out what was happening, and Whiteley was her only link to Robert. God forbid her aunt and uncle should catch her!
There was a footstep on the boards outside the solar. Chloe seized up her needlework and scurried across to the deep windowsill opposite the window she’d opened.
“Chloe?”
“Yes, Aunt Philippa?”
Her aunt waved a hand. “No need to rise, child. You’ll get your silks in a tangle. How do you fare?”
Praying her aunt wouldn’t notice the rapid rise and fall of her breathing, Chloe held out her work. “It proceeds apace. But I’m feeling stiff. Mayhap I should walk about a bit.”
“In good time. We could stroll about together—the unseasonable heat has eased, and the garden’s very pleasant. Do you really need that window open?”
“Oh, nay. I was releasing a trapped bee.” Chloe tried to put another stitch into her work, then discovered her fingers were trembling. She sucked at the loose end of her thread and smiled at her aunt. “You may close it now, by all means.”
She made another attempt to repair the embroidery.
“Lord Brooke has made an offer for you.”
The trembling became an uncontrollable shake, and she stabbed her needle into her thumb. “Ouch!”
“Have a care, child. You don’t want to bleed on that. ’Tis your uncle’s favorite nightshirt.”
Chloe thought quickly. “One moment, I pray. I’ll run down for a bandage and be back directly.”
Before Aunt Philippa could make any objection, Chloe had leaped from her seat and clamped a hand around the finger, concealing how minor the wound actually was. She hastened from the room, dragging an old handkerchief from her bosom as she went and tearing into it with her teeth to create a bandage.
Swift as a hare, she hurried downstairs and into the passageway leading to the service door. After a brief wrestle with the bolt, she opened it and was relieved to see Master Whiteley waiting patiently in the shadows.
“Quick, I pray. Will you tie this about my finger? No time to explain—I’ll be missed. Forgive me—I understand my guardians pretended they were out?”
Whiteley nodded. “Alas, they did. I know not what fault I’ve committed.”
“None, none at all. Oh, I am in such confusion. I have just received the news I’ve been dreading. But I should be asking after your health, your mission.”
Whiteley took her hand and tied the strip of linen around the injured finger. “My health is of no account, but I thank you. I regret to tell you, however, that Sir Robert has fallen sick.”
“Unwell!” Was that why he hadn’t come? “What ails him?”
“An infection in his wounded arm. He can’t be moved from his bed. I thought your aunt and uncle might wish to know why he has not asked after your wellbeing.”
Chloe fought to quell the rising horror in her breast. An infection in his wound! That could have terrible consequences—if gangrene set in, he might lose the limb. If he wasn’t well cared for, his very life could be at stake!
“Is his family in attendance on him?”
“His sister was sent for when he first became ill, but apparently her husband is sick, so she can’t leave him. Consequently, the task of ensuring Sir Robert is looked after has fallen to me.”
“Oh, what a tragedy that she cannot come! Poor woman—she must be worried unto death.”
Whiteley’s mouth twisted as he put the final knot in Chloe’s bandage.
“She’ll be remaining solely out of duty, methinks, and to ensure that if the man dies, his will is properly adhered to. I understand a good deal of money is involved.”
“Only from duty?” Robert’s sister didn’t love her husband?
“That is not my tale to tell.” Whiteley shuffled his feet. “You’d best return before you’re missed. I don’t want your guardians to know you’ve defied them.”
“Indeed. They’ll punish me by making me spend more time with Lord Brooke.”
Whiteley raised his eyebrows. “Lord Brooke? I’m certain Sir Robert muttered that name. But he was feverish at the time, and I cannot be certain I heard aright.”
“Oh, never mind that. Does he have a physician?”
“His usual doctor has been attending him this week but has just been called back to his family in the country, so another man’s been found. Robert’s comfortable enough—some of the staff have already arrived from Berkshire to see to the house, and his meals.”
“I must find a way to see him, Master Whiteley, I absolutely must! Will you help me?”
“If you can get away without arousing your uncle’s ire, I’d be happy to take you. ’Tis barely half an hour from here, at a brisk walk. Name a time and a place where we can meet, and I’ll escort you thither.”
It took an effort to think straight over the rising tide of panic. “I can steal out this way. The candles are usually snuffed by ten—I’ll wait half an hour thereafter, then slip out.”
“There’ll be retribution if you’re found out, Mistress.”
“I’ve survived worse than my guardians’ disapproval.” She was sure Uncle Matthew would do no more than rage and rail at her if she was caught. And if Lord Brooke found out about her nighttime excursion, he might withdraw his offer for her. That would be a most satisfactory outcome.
Whiteley bowed to her. “Be careful, Mistress. Anon.” He disappeared around the corner.
She took a moment or two to compose herself before she returned to the solar. Robert was seriously ill, and she knew not how she could help, or even if he would welcome her aid should she offer it. She must look through her herbal, and any other medical treatise she could find, to make sure she understood Robert’s ailment.
This past week had given her plenty of opportunities to doubt the strength of his feelings for her. Yet, if he should die, she’d never know where his kisses and sweet words might have taken her. She’d never know if she had gained a foothold in his heart.
And if she was going to have to marry Lord Brooke after all, she’d never know the taste of true love.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chloe retired early but didn’t undress. She threw the coverlet over herself, however, lest anyone should peep in on their way to bed. Her window was open a crack, and as soon as she heard the watchman cry the hour of ten, she began her preparations.
She donned a thin summer cloak with a hood and soft leather turn-shoes, buckled her belt around her waist with her hanging pocket and knife attached, and sat in silence until all sounds of movement in the house had ceased. Then she waited as long as she could bear it, and opened her door.
Trembling with excitement, she peered down the passageway and strained her ears for any noise. Unfortunately, her heart was pumping like a blacksmith’s bellows, and her blood rang in her ears, so it was impossible to listen out for danger. She forced herself to creep slowly down the stairs, fearing discovery at every step. The opening of the service door seemed to take an eternity, and each creak of the bolts was a thunderclap in her ears.
Finally, she was out on the street. Whiteley instantly appeared out of the shadows and took her arm. “We must go a roundabout way, Mistress, lest we be stopped and asked our business. Be on your guard for cutthroats, knaves, drunkards, and pickpockets, for like them, we shall be keeping to the darker ways of the town.”
She shuddered. Mayhap she should have availed herself of the key, so she could ensure the service door was locked behind her—what if some miscreant was to try the portal and find it open? Duty nagged at her, but the fear that Robert’s life was at risk from a wound he’d gained on her account made her stiffen her resolve.
Whiteley proved himself as able as a sewer rat. He took her through lanes and alleys she’d never seen before, even across gardens, and through gaps in hedges. By the time he
slowed his pace, she was thoroughly lost and knew she must ask Robert’s full address if she was ever to find the place by herself.
Whiteley stopped before a large, dark house, three stories high and with a jettied top floor that pushed out over the street. He opened the door with a key, glanced about to ensure they were unobserved, then ushered her in ahead of him.
She found herself in a narrow, flagged passageway, close to the foot of an impressive wooden staircase winding up into the darkness. As Whiteley divested Chloe of her cloak, a middle-aged woman appeared on the half-landing, bearing a candle. On seeing Whiteley, she looked relieved and came hurrying down.
“This is Goody Chandler, Sir Robert’s housekeeper. Goodwife Chandler, Mistress Emmerson is a close friend of your master.”
Chloe nodded as the woman bobbed her a curtsey. “How fares Sir Robert?”
“I don’t know if he’s well enough for visitors, Mistress, if I may make so bold.”
“We’re not here to disturb him—we’re here to relieve you from your post. Mistress Emmerson and I will watch over him and cater to his needs while you rest. You’re no longer needed—we shall shift for ourselves.”
Though Whiteley’s words were polite, there was enough command in his tone to send Goody Chandler hurrying back up the stairs with a muttered, “Thank you, sir.”
Whiteley escorted Chloe up in the housekeeper’s wake. As she vanished to the floor above, he opened a door into a dimly lit room and motioned Chloe inside.
The first thing that hit her was the smell. The chamber was suffused with the foul odor of putrefaction, and it was as much as she could do not to retch. She dashed to the window and flung it wide open.
“Doctor Bower said the night air could be injurious to the invalid’s health,” Whiteley reprimanded her gently.
“Skimble skamble! How can anyone feel well with such a foul stench around them? Oh, merciful heaven, Robert!”
She seized a candle from a sconce by the window and held it low over the bed. Robert’s face was pale and pinched, and his mouth hung slack. His blond hair was dark with sweat, and he lay flat on his back in the bed, like one already dead. Whiteley took a cloth and dabbed at Robert’s forehead.
She grabbed it from him. “I’ll do that.” Fear strangled her voice, but she needed to be close and to be doing something useful.
Robert was not asleep—his eyes were open but focused on nothing, and his lips were moving, though no words could be discerned.
She turned to Whiteley and asked softly, “What, exactly, did the doctor say?”
“That Robert has a high fever, and that he wants to amputate the arm lest the infection spread.”
She stroked the cloth over Robert’s face and tried to see if there was any hint of recognition in his glassy eyes. “Robert? Robert—’tis I, Chloe. You will come through this, sirrah. I didn’t save you from a leaden ball just to see you lose a limb or die from lack of due care.”
There were tears in her eyes as she stepped back and wrung the cloth out over a basin. “I think Sir Robert would thank us if we could save his arm. Master Whiteley, is there a garden here?”
“Aye, a well-stocked one.” He looked puzzled.
She unsheathed her knife. “Let’s go and see what there is that I can use. Can you get me a lantern and a basket?”
“I can, but why, Mistress?”
“There may be some feverfew. We won’t know unless we look, will we?” She didn’t mean to sound impatient, but she’d never known fear like this, not even when she’d stared down the barrel of a traitor’s gun. Robert would either die or lose his arm. Neither scenario was acceptable.
As soon as they were outside, she scouted about until she found the plant she sought. Tearing off several stalks, she then spotted a rank of lavender bushes. The flowers were long since dead, but the leaves would do, and there were a few late roses, too, emitting a powerful scent. Gathering as many aromatic herbs and flowers as she could, she then gestured to Whiteley to hold the lantern for her so she could investigate the espaliers along the garden wall.
Crouching down, she examined the fallen fruit. Eventually, she found a couple of maggot-ridden pears and picked them up gingerly using a fig leaf to avoid embedding her fingers in the decaying flesh.
Her next port of call was Robert’s kitchen, where she bade Whiteley make up the fire, but quietly, so as not to disturb Goodwife Chandler or the other servants. A pot of water was set over the flames to heat. She worked at speed, tearing up the scented petals and herbs. “A chafing dish, if you please, sir.”
Whiteley hastened to do her bidding. “I understand you want the feverfew for a tisane, to cool him. But why the lavender? And the rotten fruit?”
“You men have such a base sense of smell,” she complained. “I wish to sweeten the room and banish the foul odors. The fruit is for the maggots. To eat the dead flesh around the wound, if there is any. I know not if it will work but if it does, it may reduce the infection.”
“Why does a young lady, gently brought up like you, put any store by the remedies of country folk?”
“Because those remedies are all we have at present. I would trust a hedgewitch a hundred times more than I would trust any physician. The cures of the former were used by our ancestors. They would have been forgotten by now if there was no efficacy in them. Can you find some charcoal for me, or get some embers going in the chafing dish?” She pushed her hair back under her coif and realized her forehead felt damp. She was working herself into a frenzy in her desperation to help Robert. If only Whiteley had come to her sooner!
“Once you have the chafing dish alight, take it upstairs and cast a few lavender leaves on it. Not too many—you don’t want to quench the heat. That should help improve the air—and if it smokes too much, put it by the window.”
She could barely wait for the water to boil. As soon as the first bubbles appeared, she poured water over the feverfew leaves and, remembering how bitter the taste would be, added honey. As soon as she was satisfied with the tisane’s strength, she strained it and hurried back up to Robert’s chamber.
She glanced at Whiteley. “Can you prop him up? I need him to drink this.”
He obliged, hefting the half-conscious Robert up onto his pillows. The invalid groaned and shook his head in annoyance, but Chloe settled herself alongside him and held the beaker to his lips. “This will taste a little bitter, Robert, but it will help break the fever. Drink as much as you can, I pray.”
She raised the cup to his lips, trying to still the tremor in her hand. His eyes opened wider and, for a moment, she thought she saw recognition in them, and the hint of a smile on his lips. He sipped dutifully until the cup was empty.
She sucked in a breath. That had been the easy part. She now had his arm to attend to. As she reached toward the stained and stinking bandage, Whiteley caught at her wrist.
“I’ll do it, Mistress. ’Tis no sight for a lady. I shall follow whatever instruction you care to give.”
She lifted her chin. “I’m no milk-and-water maid, sir. Particularly not after my recent adventures. I have no intention of fainting. Will you go down to the kitchen and fetch up the hot water and a clean cloth, if you can find one?”
Whiteley dutifully retreated downstairs again, and Chloe was left alone with Robert. Not sure why, she held his hand for a moment and found she could draw strength from its warmth. Summoning up her courage, she cut away the bandage on his upper arm. He moaned a little as the cloth stuck, so she waited until Whiteley returned with the warm water, then set about soaking the rest of the bandage away.
She worked with slow deliberation, shutting her nose to the smell of decaying flesh until the wound was as clean as she could make it. Then she took up the rotten pear and, choking down her revulsion, tapped the wriggling maggots out of it and into Robert’s wound.
Then she sat back, at a loss. Should she cover the injury? Would the maggots be happy there, or would they try and crawl away? Her medical book had assumed that
its readers already had a store of relevant knowledge.
“Oh, sir, I don’t know what to do now!” Her voice was hoarse, and she felt herself sway. Whiteley caught and held her until her cheeks began to redden, and she pushed away.
“You’re too kind. I’ll recover myself directly.” She glanced at Robert’s crawling, open wound, and winced.
“I think it best to cover it, so that the creatures are encouraged to stay, but lightly, so as not to damage them while they are about their work. I can do that—my stomach is stronger than yours, my hand more stable.”
Chloe glanced down and saw how much her hands were shaking. “I thank you, sir. But pray, be gentle.”
Relieved, she walked to the window and stole some more deep breaths. The air in the room smelled heavy and rich, far healthier than before. She forced her body to a state of calm, then slowly and deliberately cleansed her hands.
“Done. I’ll tidy up in here, then arouse one of the servants to watch over Robert while I take you home.” Whiteley collected the dirtied cloths and bandages and put them in the basket.
“When does the doctor call again?” Chloe was pleased her voice had lost its nervous edge.
“He said he’d be here on the morrow at about eleven of the clock.”
“I’ll move heaven and earth to be here, that I may speak with him. That sawbones must be dissuaded from removing Robert’s arm. If you can bear it, Master Whiteley, could you change his dressing in the meantime? And mayhap someone could give him a gentle wash and change his bedding.”
“Of course. I’ll clean him up. But remember, Mistress, that the doctor’s a capable and experienced man. If he firmly believes that taking off the arm will save Robert’s life, ’tis not our place to argue with him.”
Her jaw tightened. “I understand that, but I remain to be convinced. I beg of you, sir, let no decision be made before I arrive.”
Whiteley gave her a solemn bow. “You have my word.”
Lord of Mistrust (Trysts and Treachery Book 4) Page 14