A Rose Before Dying (16 page)

“Get her back to the cottage as soon as you
can.” Charles watched as his uncle guided the horse toward the
road. “We’ll follow.”

“You’d best be quick. I’ve no way to get her
down off this blasted horse except to drop her.” With that terse
remark, Sir Edward clicked his tongue and gave the stout gray mare
her head to return home to her stable and bin of oats.

Turning back, Charles extended a hand to help
Ariadne rise. “Are you all right?”

She brushed off her wet skirts with shaking
hands and shivered. “Yes—I’m better off than Miss Baxter. Do you
think she’ll live? She was in the water for a terribly long
time.”

“I honestly don’t know. Once we get back to
the cottage, I’ll go for a doctor.” He studied her wan face. “Shall
I ask Agnes to return with me?”

“I don’t know.” She glanced around
distractedly, rubbing her arms. “I don’t want to move Miss Baxter
too much, but…”

He understood her unspoken reservations. If
they all stayed at Marsh Rose Cottage, it would be a very intimate
house party. However, staying at the Mermaid would appear almost as
improper, perhaps worse. Then there was the added difficulty of
trying to nurse a sick woman at a busy inn. Under such
circumstances, necessity had to take precedence over propriety.

“I’ll fetch Agnes and the coach. Miss
Baxter’s needs are more easily addressed at the cottage.”

“Thank you.” She sighed and pressed her palm
against her chest in relief. “I couldn’t face walking back to town.
Especially in these.” Plucking at her skirts, she spread the heavy,
damp fabric. Several pale lines of mud were already visible as the
uppermost expanse of material dried. “I should have brought more
garments. I wasn’t thinking.”

“We can see what we can purchase in town.
Tomorrow.” He smiled. “Or rather, later today. In any event, we’ll
make Miss Baxter and you as comfortable as possible.”

They lapsed into silence as they trudged back
to the cottage, stumbling over even the smoothest patches of
ground. Somehow, the distance seemed twice as long as it had when
they were occupied with searching. The rough path was barely
distinguishable in the pre-dawn darkness and they kept straying off
and tripping as the vegetation caught at their shuffling feet.
Finally, the cottage came into view.

Sir Edward sagged on his horse as he waited
near the door. When they neared, he turned toward them. “There you
are! Where have you been? Sightseeing, my lord?”

“No,” Charles replied mildly as he neared the
horse. His uncle was clearly at the end of his strength and sat
slumped in the saddle. They were all cold, wet and irritable. “Let
me carry Miss Baxter into the house. I’ll come back for you.”

“Just take this blasted woman! I don’t need
help.”

Charles nodded and slipped Miss Baxter from
the horse’s neck to his shoulder. Staying a few steps ahead of him,
Ariadne ran up the stairs and opened the door. On the first floor
she hesitated, turning left and then right in the gloom.

“Left,” he grunted, panting as he climbed the
stairs. “First door on the right.”

She hurried forward and propped the door
open. He edged around her. With deft movements, she pulled back the
quilt so he could lay Miss Baxter on the bed.

“Do you need help?” Charles picked up one of
Miss Baxter’s limp ankles and began untying the stubborn knot
holding her shoelaces tight.

“No—I can manage. You’d better see to your
uncle.”

“Let me at least get the fire started. And
I’ll get the extra blankets from the other bedrooms—she must be
warmed.” He touched Miss Baxter’s thin, cold hand before striding
to the fireplace.

A few logs and some kindling were still piled
in a brass box on the stone apron. He quickly laid a fire and used
the phosphorous box on the mantle to get it started. Once the
flames were crackling, he held his hands out briefly, relishing the
warmth. He never thought he’d enjoy a fire in July.

In a matter of seconds, he’d collected extra
bedding and thrust it into Ariadne’s arms.

Outside again, Charles found his uncle
sitting sideways on the saddle, staring at the ground. When he
joined him, Sir Edward scowled. “What the bloody hell were you
doing?”

I thought you didn’t need my help?
He
gripped his uncle under his arms. “Are you ready?”

“Just hold steady.” Struggling to control his
descent, Sir Edward threw an arm over the horse’s neck. When his
feet hit the ground, he bit off a deep groan and caught at the
saddle, resting his sweating forehead against his outstretched
forearm.

“Uncle!” Charles drew one of Sir Edward’s
arms over his shoulder. “Are you able to walk?”

“Does it matter? I’ve got to, regardless.
Just give me a minute.” He breathed harshly through his mouth. The
pressure on Charles’s shoulder increased, and he drew in one more
deep breath. “Are we going to stand here all night?”

“Only if you want to.”

“Damn you, my lord.” Sir Edward laughed
harshly before he stumbled forward, most of his weight on Charles.
When they entered the house, Charles steered him into the sitting
room and helped him to the sofa.

“I’m going to fetch the doctor—”

“What a bloody surprise!”

“And Miss Wellfleet’s maid. I’ll be back as
soon as I can.”

“Lovely. Be sure to write.” Sir Edward stared
around the room, a frown digging grooves on either side of his
mouth. “Where’s the bloody lap rug?”

Charles dashed upstairs and grabbed a blanket
out of the chest in the master bedroom before returning to his
uncle. “Here. Is there anything else you need before I go?”

“An ounce of trust would be nice.”

“Then I’ll give you a pound. If you require
anything before I return, just yell. Ariadne is upstairs.”

“And no doubt busy. I’ll be fine just as soon
as you leave me in peace.”

“No doubt.” Charles wavered and then left,
unable to think of anything else he could do.

The doctor, a slim, active man in his
mid-forties, responded quickly to Charles’s summons despite the
early hour. Charles’s pocket watch read nearly five-thirty in the
morning and the physician seemed revoltingly chipper when he agreed
to go directly to Marsh Rose Cottage in his gig. After waving him
off, Charles made a detour to the Mermaid and ordered Agnes and the
coachman to follow him as quickly as possible.

When the cavalcade at last converged upon the
cottage, Charles walked in to find the doctor engaged in a heated
argument with Sir Edward.

“Will you at least allow me to look at it?”
Dr. Humphrey asked.

Sir Edward’s face was livid with anger. “I
will not! Your patient is upstairs. Now get the hell out of my
sitting room!”

“What’s all this?” Charles asked, keeping his
tone light.

Dr. Humphrey glanced at him and shook his
head. “I found your uncle gripping his leg and groaning—”

“You’re a bloody liar!” Sir Edward ground
out. “Get out and see to those damn females—they’re the ones who
want you.”

“—and I felt I should check his foot. He was
in my office several weeks ago. I informed him then—”

“Go!” Sir Edward subsided into a series of
grumbles when Charles gave him a sharp glance.

The doctor remained where he was. “The foot
must be amputated.”

Amputation?
Charles winced. He
couldn’t imagine any worse horror. Only rigid self-control allowed
him to keep from staring at his uncle and revealing his own
anxiety.

He gripped the doctor’s shoulder and drew him
out of the sitting room. “May I ask that you see to the women
upstairs, first? We can discuss treatment for my uncle afterward.
He’s exhausted and in pain. This has been a difficult night.”

“No doubt,” Dr. Humphrey remarked dryly. He
followed Charles up the stairs and into the bedroom. “However, I
told him weeks ago it had to be done. It’s a miracle it hasn’t
killed him. Yet.” This gruesome prediction seemed to provide a
great deal of amusement to him. His eyes gleamed with joy at the
prospect, or perhaps it was just at the thought of being proved
correct.

Charles gripped the banister to keep from
hitting him.

The glow in the doctor’s eyes dimmed,
however, when they entered the sickroom.

A hushed sense of urgency filled the confined
space. Agnes had arrived a few minutes after Charles and
immediately set to work building up the fire and laying out damp
clothing to dry. Miss Wellfleet stood near the bed, chafing Miss
Baxter’s limp hand and smoothing the covers whenever the lady
moved.

The patient didn’t look much better than she
had in the swamp, despite the warm—almost overheated—room. Her lips
were blue and her skin an unhealthy gray.

“Has she regained consciousness at all since
you discovered her?” Dr. Humphrey asked as he laid his bag on a
small table next to the bed. He rested the back of his hand against
her forehead for a moment before picking up her wrist.

“No, I’m afraid not. She has remained as you
see her.” Ariadne ran her hands over the covers in a way that
revealed her anxiety more accurately than any words.

“Have you tried smelling salts?”

“No. I thought she might be better off as she
is.”

The doctor shook his head as he dug out a
small bottle. “Sal volatile.” He uncorked the bottle and waved it
beneath her nose. “I don’t want her sinking into a sleep from which
she may never awaken.”

At first, there was no response. Had they
been too late, after all? Charles tensed, fearing the worst. He
moved to Ariadne’s side and briefly touched her hand. She surprised
him when she clasped it in a tight grip and flashed him a brief,
sad smile.

Frowning, the doctor waved the bottle again
under his patient’s nose. Even Charles could smell the sharp scent
of ammonium carbonate dissolved in alcohol. He took a step back,
but jerked forward again when the doctor gave her several light
slaps across the cheek.

“What—” Charles moved to stop him.

A moan escaped Miss Baxter’s lips. She turned
her head away and hunched her shoulders as she coughed violently.
Dr. Humphrey slipped an arm behind her back to bring her into a
sitting position and thumped her back. The liquid, gurgling sound
of her hacking made Ariadne grab a china wash basin. She leaned
forward and held it under Miss Baxter’s chin as the woman coughed
to clear her lungs and throat.

At last, her eyes fluttered. “Wh-where—”
Another cough cut off her words and triggered a gagging flood of
brackish water.

“You’re safe, Miss Baxter—it’s Ariadne. We
found you, and you’re safe.”

The doctor continued vigorously rubbing the
woman’s narrow back until she coughed and vomited again before she
rolled weakly to her side.

Miss Baxter slapped wildly at the doctor.
“Stop—please.”

Ignoring her pleas, Dr. Humphrey grabbed her
chin and examined her face, turning it to one side and the other
before lifting each eyelid to stare into her eyes. “How are you
feeling?”

“Cold. Tired.” Using her shoulder to push him
away, she curled on her side with her back to them. “Leave me in
peace,” she whispered in a thready voice.

“Keep her warm and give her some broth. In
the morning, let her have buttered toast soaked in hot milk. I fear
she may be developing a fever from exposure. Despite her complaint
that she’s cold, her forehead is hot. She’s flushed and perspiring.
If she’s strong it may go no further than this, but…” He shook his
head and repacked his case. “There is nothing to do but wait.”

“What about a hot buttered rum?” Ariadne
asked as the doctor strode toward the door. “My father swore
toddies always kept him from developing any illnesses when everyone
around him was sick.”

“I doubt it would hurt,” he replied in an
irritable tone that confirmed Charles’s worst fears. He didn’t
believe anything would aid, or hurt, Miss Baxter.

Charles laid a hand on Miss Baxter’s shoulder
when she tried to sit up. Burning heat seeped through his palm.
When he caught Ariadne’s gaze, he could sense the fear making her
hands tremble at her sides.

He followed the doctor and stopped him in the
hallway. “Do you believe she’s strong enough to question?”

The doctor glanced through the door at the
patient. She lay on her side with her eyes squeezed shut while
Ariadne pulled the covers up around her. “It might not cause too
much harm.”

“I don’t want to disturb her,” Charles
studied the women. “But if she should get worse, we might never
learn what happened.”

“I understand. One or two questions won’t
cause too much damage. In the meantime, I’ll be downstairs with my
other patient. Your uncle promises to be much more difficult.”

He waited until the doctor disappeared down
the stairs before returning to stand beside Miss Baxter’s bed. “Is
she awake?”

“I believe so.” Ariadne brushed the graying
brown hair away from her cousin’s forehead. “Miss Baxter, it’s
Charles, that is, Lord Castlemoor. He rescued you. Are you strong
enough to speak to him?”

Miss Baxter turned her face up and frowned,
although she didn’t open her eyes.

“Do you remember what happened?” Charles
asked.

“A woman—” She broke off with a cough.

“A woman?” Charles caught Ariadne’s startled
glance. “A
woman
?”

“Yes. A maid…a new one…she brought tea.” She
grimaced. “Terrible stuff.”

A maid had drugged her? “Did you recognize
her?”

“No—I told you. She was new. To take care of
that child, I suppose.”

“I haven’t hired a nanny for Rose,” Ariadne
said. “I don’t understand. Are you saying a
woman
is
responsible for all of this?”

“Are you absolutely sure?” He studied Miss
Baxter’s flushed face, but after a minute, she pulled the covers up
and shut her eyes, doing her best to ignore him. “A woman brought
you here?”