A Rose Before Dying (20 page)

He kept pace and forced a pleasant smile.
“Your grief does you credit—”

“My grief? My lord, I should keep quiet—I
know. But what can you know of such things? My mistress is
dead—murdered! And how am I to get on now? A woman like me? She’s
gone. I’ve no place, now.”

“I’m sorry.”

“That is a kindness, coming from a great man
such as yourself, but ‘sorry’ doesn’t change things. She was
worried sick, she was, about Sir Edward. He had a temper, you know.
And she feared his anger and what would happen when she told him
she no longer wished him to squire her about. Not with him being a
cripple and all, my lord.” She took a deep breath and plunged on.
“I’m not one to gossip about my betters, but you wished the truth,
did you not, my lord? Best prepare yourself for the worst, as I
always says.”

“Yes, but he was a cripple. He couldn’t have
shot her through a window in a nearby building and then run down
the stairs in time to be found bending over her body before you
arrived.”

“Her blood was on his hands, my lord!”

“He called for help. He was trying to save
her life.”

“After she told him she wanted none of
him?”

“He still loved her.”

Her reddened fingers clenched her sewing
bag.“I should never have spoken so to my betters, but I was never
one to remain silent. Say what you want, your uncle had a temper.
He were a jealous man, beggin’ your pardon. And no woman‘ud shoot
another.” Her lips thinned. Her skirts swung and slapped his legs
as she hurried toward home.

Around them, night was falling, the sky
deepening to rich purple. Charles lengthened his stride to keep up,
and caught her elbow when she stumbled as the gloom deepened and
obscured the cracks in the walkway.

Cracks
… Her arguments exposed a fine
web of cracks in his own theories, but he knew his uncle was
innocent. He felt sure of it.

“Thank you for speaking so frankly.” He
placed a restraining hand on her arm long enough to enable him to
thrust a card into her hand. “If you need anything, please don’t
hesitate to send word.”

“Well, you’re a kind gentleman. Not at all
like Sir Edward, my lord. I’m sorry for your troubles.” With that,
she turned on one stout heel and locked arms with the other maid
who had been trailing behind them. The two women strode off into
the purple-tinged shadows, obviously eager to obtain the safety of
their home—temporary though that safety was. He watched them,
wishing he could have offered her more hope than just his card. But
perhaps she would be lucky and find another situation, soon.

His own affairs were none too settled with
nothing but a gentleman’s apartments to call his own. But finding
appropriate accommodations was the least of his worries. The
evening had cooled, wrapping chilly arms around him. He made his
way through the busy street, hardly noticing the crowds. His mind
circled again and again over the events. None of them hung together
properly, and although he didn’t want to admit it, he found himself
as unable to believe a woman had shot Lady Banks as Miss
Caldwell.

His legs ached with exhaustion.

Perhaps a few hours of uninterrupted thought
would bring clarity to the situation.

Worn thin and dozing in a rocking chair,
Ariadne jerked awake at the creak of the bedroom door. She glanced
at the bed.

Miss Baxter remained asleep, her face
elongated and slack with exhaustion.

A knock shook the door.

“Come in.” She wiped a bead of sweat from her
brow and eyed the closed window. She longed to fling it open. The
July sun pounded the house and the small room felt airless. But she
dared not open the windows for fear of a damp breeze from the marsh
exacerbating Miss Baxter’s condition.

“How are our patients today, Miss Wellfleet?”
Dr. Humphrey walked in and laid his leather bag on the bed with a
jolt, next to Miss Baxter’s feet.

She glanced again at Miss Baxter. Her cousin
slept soundly beneath a light blanket, oblivious to the movement of
the bed.

“She awoke last night long enough to sip a
cup of beef broth. I believe she’s recovering.” Ariadne sounded
more optimistic than she felt after a long night. “However, she
complained of being hot, so I removed one of the blankets. Is that
all right?”

“Certainly,” he replied absently as he held
Miss Baxter’s wrist in one hand and stared at his pocket watch.
“How is her breathing?”

“Labored.” She straightened and watched him,
her hands twisting.

Dr. Humphrey pulled a wooden tube shaped like
an ear trumpet out of his bag and placed the cup-shaped end against
Miss Baxter’s chest. After a minute, he repositioned it, his face
betraying so little that Ariadne’s nerves tightened almost
unbearably.

Why didn’t he say something? Her fingers grew
cold and numb as she clenched them against her stiff skirts.

“Is she better?”

He raised one hand and turned his palm toward
her, requesting silence.

She sat in the rocking chair again and took a
deep breath of stifling, warm air. A curl of hair wriggled down
under her collar. She raked a hand under the curls clinging to her
damp nape to lift up the irritating tangle. Even her sheer dress
felt as if it were made of heavy wool.

“May I speak to you in the hallway?” Dr.
Humphrey asked in a quiet voice. He replaced his stethoscope in his
bag and turned to hold the door for her.

She slipped into the relatively cool shadows
of the hallway and clasped her elbows, striving for quiet,
competent serenity.

“Has she been coughing?”

“Yes, but not a great deal. Just a few dry
coughs. And her fever seemed to ease this morning.” She glanced at
the closed door as if she could see Miss Baxter through the thick
wood. “She seemed better. We gave her another cup of broth this
morning. Did I do something wrong?” An old tendril of worry wrapped
around her.
Have I compounded her illness? Made it
worse?

“No. However, I’m not sanguine of our
patient’s progress. There is fluid in her lungs.”

“Fluid!” Her throat tightened. “Could it be
river water?”

“Perhaps. But I fear pneumonia may have her
in its grip. We must bleed her immediately and apply the
appropriate remedies.”

“But…pneumonia?” she repeated, shocked. “It’s
July! Surely, it’s too warm?”

“She was exposed in the river for several
hours and aspirated water.” He shook his head and took her hand. He
rubbed her fingers between his palms and then gave her hand a brisk
pat before releasing it. “Such a thing is not entirely unexpected.
Now, I’ll need a bowl.” He studied her with sharp eyes. “And I
believe it would be best if you were to send Mrs. Bewforest up with
the bowl and a towel. In the meantime, you may prepare a kettle to
place over a low fire in the patient’s room. Fill it three quarters
full with water and then add vinegar and chamomile. The steam will
help her breath. After I bleed her, I’ll provide Mrs. Bewforest
with additional instructions and medicines.”

“But I—”

“You’re clearly exhausted. Mrs. Bewforest and
her daughter have served as nurses before. They understand what’s
required. It does no one any good if you catch her illness by
disregarding your own health.” He gave her a brief smile. “Your
concern does you credit, but please get some rest. I can’t have a
third patient on my hands at Marsh Rose Cottage.”

“No, of course not.” She turned, struggling
with mixed feelings of relief at the thought of a few hours of rest
and irritation over the doctor’s belief that her cousin would be
better off in Mrs. Bewforest’s brawny-armed care.

After sending Mrs. Bewforest upstairs with
the requested supplies, Ariadne found the oppressive heat too
overwhelming to sleep. After twenty restless minutes, she escaped
from the confines of the house to walk through the small garden.
She was staring down at the woody branches of a rosemary plant when
she heard someone calling. To her surprise, Sir Edward’s window
stood open. She stepped carefully over the uneven path to the
opening and leaned her elbows against the sill.

“Sir Edward, do you need something?”

He sat up in his bed and eyed her with a
frown. He’d thrust aside most of his covers so only a sheet covered
him, draped over some sort of contraption that covered his right
limb. “Is that doctor here?” A spasm crossed his sweating face. He
clutched his right leg briefly and grimaced.

“Are you in pain?” She gripped the sill, her
fingers tightening in sympathy as her imagination shied away from
thoughts of his terrible pain.

She could not imagine losing a limb.

“No—I feel like getting up and dancing the
jig across the floor! Of course I’m in pain, you daft woman! That
quack chewed off my foot with a dull set of wooden teeth by the
feel of it.”

“I’m sorry—”

“Sorry?
Sorry
? What use is that to
me?” His heavily veined hands plucked at the thin sheet as sweat
streaked down his pale face. He brushed the dampness away
impatiently with the back of his hand. “That woman you sent to
supposedly care for me seems to think feeding me gruel and
manhandling me in my own bed constitutes tender concern.”

“I’m sorry you’re in pain—”

“No more than I!”

Despite her profound sympathy over his
situation, Ariadne had difficulty suppressing a small, hysterical
giggle. She started to speak and had to clamp her mouth shut as
another inappropriate laugh bubbled in her chest. Her eyes watered.
She took a deep breath, horrified at her reaction. Exhaustion had
made her light-headed and as giggly as a child. It was almost a
minute before she could control herself. While she struggled, Sir
Edward stared at her from beneath heavy brows.

Finally, she pressed a hand against her chest
and regained some control. “I’ll—” Another giggle rose. She
squashed it mercilessly and coughed to clear her throat. “I’ll ask
the doctor for a draught to help you rest. I’m so sorry—”

“You’re hysterical,” he accused her.

“Yes, I’m afraid so.” Her voice shook. She
bit the insides of her cheeks and forced her mouth to curve down,
striving for something that looked like a frown. When he glanced
away and lifted his hand in dismissal, she hurried to the kitchen
door.

The stifling air inside hit her like the
steam from an overheated teakettle as soon as she stepped into the
kitchen. The blue-gray shadows striping the interior should have
promised cool relief, but they just seemed to make it more
oppressive.

She ransacked the pantry for the small blue
bottle of laudanum the doctor had left and assembled a tray with a
glass of barley-water and the medicine. After a moment’s thought,
she added a small plate of scones Mrs. Bewforest’s daughter,
Martha, had made that morning. Thus prepared, she slipped into Sir
Edward’s make-shift bedroom.

“I’ve brought something to ease your—”

“There’s nothing strong enough to ease this,
you silly cow!”

“I’m sorry.” Ariadne flushed and then
startled herself and her beetle-browed patient by giggling. “I’m
sorry,” she gasped, struggling for self-control. “I—I’m—”

“Mildly insane?” His eyes briefly twinkled
before a spasm of pain contorted his features. The muscles in his
jaw and neck bunched. After an agonizing minute, he mopped his face
on the sleeve of his nightshirt.

“Yes. Don’t worry. I’m only ever so slightly
off kilter.” She placed the tray on the tiny round table next to
his bed and dribbled a few drops of the liquid into the
barley-water. The medicine turned it milky as she stirred it. She
handed it to him, granting him the dignity of ignoring his helpless
groan and restless shifting under the covers. “Drink this. All of
it.”

“Bully.”

“Infant.” She held out her hand and waited
while he drained the glass. “Now, I’ll leave the plate of scones. I
suggest you eat something.”

“I suggest you mind your own business, Miss
Wellfleet.”

She smiled. “You don’t scare me, you
know.”

“Only because I’m confined to this blasted
bed. Just wait a day or two. Then we’ll see who scares whom.”

“I suppose we shall.” She turned toward the
door when a sudden, smart slap on the sheet startled her.

“Don’t leave yet. I’ve nothing to do but
think about this wretched foot.”

“I didn’t realize—”

“That my nephew would see fit to leave me
alone in your care?”

“Miss Bewforest and her mother—”

“Have been the most irritating pair of women
I’ve ever had the privilege to meet. Please. Sit down.” He waved to
the single, ladder-backed chair in the room. And as if to convince
her of his sincerity, he finished the contents of the glass and
picked up one of the scones. “What’s the news, then, of your
cousin?”

“She is—” She paused and then after a long
sigh, she continued in a low voice, “She’s not doing very well. Dr.
Humphrey is here. He believes she may have pneumonia.”

“That addlepate! Always predicting the most
dire condition possible so he can practice more of his filthy
tricks!” His features twisted again. He took a ferocious bite of
the scone. “Sorry,” he mumbled around the crumbling pastry. He
chewed and swallowed before flicking her a glance from beneath his
brows and taking another bite. Crumbs littered the sheet and blew
into the air as he asked, “Did she say anything? What of her
assailant?”

“Only that ‘he’ was actually a ‘she’.”

Silence.

She waited, hoping for something…an answer,
perhaps. He finished his scone and methodically chewed the last
bite. “You must have thought of this.”

“What?”

“Mr. Tunnes.”

“I never—I…” Her words foundered in a wave of
dizziness. Why hadn’t she thought of the actor, Gregory Tunnes?

“He’s dressed as a woman frequently enough.
On stage.” He grunted. “And off. From what I understand.”