The Brontë Plot (23 page)

Lucy glanced between them.

“Miles is a doctor,” the other offered.

“Helen Carmichael.”

“Can you hear me, Helen? It's time to wake.” He said something quick, deep, and, Lucy presumed, German to his friend, who left the room.

“Is she okay?”

“She is waking now. Wil is bringing her a glass of water.”

Moments later, Bette led a tall young man with a large black bag into the room as Wil returned with the water. Both men went straight to the sofa. Bette stood with Lucy.

“That was so frightening.” Bette twisted her hands in front of her. “But Dr. Matthews will know what to do.”

Lucy noticed Bette's flushed face and rapid breathing. “You ran?”

“It was faster than calling. His office is down the street.”

Impulsively Lucy threw an arm around her. “Thank you so much.”

Within a few minutes, Dr. Matthews, with the help of Wil and Dr. Miles, had Helen safely tucked into bed. When Lucy entered Helen's room, she was propped against the pillows with an IV flowing into the top of her wrist.

“Are you sure she shouldn't be at a hospital?” Lucy's semi-belligerent tone caught everyone's attention—including her own. “I'm sorry, but are you
sure
? I mean, how do you know she's okay?”

Dr. Matthews regarded Helen before addressing Lucy. “Her vitals are strong and other than fatigue and extreme dehydration, she's fine.”

He clasped Helen's hand. “You can see the effects of dehydration in her hands and swollen feet.”

Helen pulled her hand away with a huff of annoyance.

Lucy caught it, but directed her focus to the doctor. “Her feet were swollen last night. We . . . I didn't know that's what that meant. Are you sure about the hospital?”

“I'll give her two bags of fluid and I recommend a few days' rest. I suspect the antibiotics contributed to this and, that said, her immune system is weak. Sometimes hospitals aren't the best places to be.”

“You're sure?”

“If you insist—” came from the doctor simultaneously with a sharp “Lucy!” from Helen.

Lucy held up her hands. “I'm sorry. I'm nervous.” She leaned around the doctor. “I'm not telling James if something happens to you.”

Helen laughed. “That's what you're worried about?”

“Wouldn't you be?”

“I'd be more scared of Charlie.” Helen closed her eyes. “Now could you all please leave? I'm done in and there's nothing more to do. A trip to the hospital is not up for discussion.”

The doctor chuckled. “We will leave, but I'll be back in a couple hours to switch your fluids. And if you need to use the bathroom, please ask—”

He stopped at Helen's raised hand. “We are not discussing that. Thank you, young man.”

Shaking his head, he followed Lucy from the room.

She turned toward him as soon as the door clicked shut. “You are sure she's okay? Really sure? There is nothing you're not telling us?”

“She is exhausted and she's dehydrated and”—he gave Lucy a significant look—“that is the extent to which she's allowing me to treat her and the extent to which I could regardless.”

With a slight bow, he ducked around her and loped down the stairs. He waved to Bette and called back to her from the front door, “I'll be back in a couple hours to check on Mrs. Carmichael.”

Lucy stood holding the railing and staring down until the heavy front door slammed shut.

Bette lifted her head. “He's a very good doctor.”

“He'd better be.”

Lucy had secured the armchair near the fireplace by leaving her book in it every time she ventured up to Helen's room. Hours later, Helen remained fast asleep; Lucy still checked regularly.

By one o'clock, she felt as if she'd already worn a path along the plush Wilton carpet and sank once more into the chair. She palmed her phone and ran her finger across the blank black face to turn it on. But this time, she tapped James's number.

Lucy listened as it rang and rang. Right before it would've jumped to voice mail, she heard a brusque, “Lucy? What's up?”

She wanted a softer intro, but this was what she had to deal with. She dove in. “Your grandmother fainted walking down some stairs this morning. She's fine. They were carpeted and I caught her, but I needed to call and I don't have your dad's number.”

“What happened?”

“She just fell. The doctor says she's suffering from exhaustion and severe dehydration.”

“Are you in London?” James asked with a slight bang and a groan. “Darn desk drawer.”

“We arrived in Haworth last night.”

“What hospital is she at?”

Lucy closed her eyes. “She isn't in one.”

“What?”

“I asked, but the doctor said she was fine. I asked again and he said the same thing. He even said a hospital wouldn't
be good after her cold, that her immune system might still be compromised.”

“Nevertheless, if she needs—”

“She agrees with the doctor. She won't go.”

“She doesn't get a choice,” James growled.

Lucy pulled her phone from her ear, as if it had relayed something wrong, as if James could not have said that—and in that tone.

“I'm the one without a choice, James. She won't go and the doctor agrees with her. I agree with you, but that doesn't count. She's perfectly lucid.” Lucy heard James suck in air as if he was about to start yelling.

She spoke before he could. “He hooked her up to an IV and he's just left after switching her to a second bag. He'll be back in a couple hours and promises to come by again when his office hours end.”

“She's eighty-five. He can't give her a glass of water and think that's enough.”

“James.” Lucy pressed her lips tight, refusing to argue or plead.

“What?” His voice calmed.

“I can't force her to do anything. I'm not family.” Lucy pulled a card from her bag's side pocket. “I'm going to text you his number. He told me to pass it along so that your dad or her doctor, or anyone, can call him. I didn't want to text it to you without talking to you first.”

“I appreciate that. I'll pass it along to my dad.” James paused. “Lucy?”

“Yes?”

“Take care of her.”

“Always.” Lucy let the word, and all the meaning it once carried, linger. James hung up. She texted the doctor's number then slid the phone into her bag and wandered toward the stairs again.

“It's only been ten minutes since you checked.” Bette's soft voice surprised her.

“I didn't see you there.”

“The wind has died down. Go for a walk. I'll keep an eye on her.” Bette walked around the desk and stood near her.

“You're so busy.”

“I'm not too busy to dash up there for a few minutes.” Bette tilted her head to the front door. “Go.”

Lucy accepted the offer. She needed out. She grabbed her coat and strode toward Main Street, thinking she'd be eager to see the town, explore the shops, and relish all things Brontë. But as she approached the first door with the tempting sign,
Thornfield Luncheon Special
, she found herself racing on. Helen had brought her to Haworth and was such a fundamental part of the experience that to see, smell, or touch anything now felt like a betrayal. The discomfort of the cobblestones and gravel under her feet felt fitting as she pushed to the edge of town.

By the time Lucy found Main Street again, her feet were sore and numb. The sky had turned dark gray and her stomach made gurgling noises, audible to passersby. She was late and anxious.

She found Bette descending the stairs. “Perfect timing. She and Mum had a lovely time over a bowl of soup and now she's wide awake.”

Lucy started up the stairs. “Thank you, Bette, and thank your mom too.” She knocked on Helen's door and entered without waiting for a reply. Helen sat up in bed with a pale-pink satin bed jacket draped over her shoulders. Her cheeks matched the jacket's soft tone. Lucy smiled. “You look lovely.”

“You sound relieved.”

“I am.” She walked over to the bed and squeezed Helen's hand. “I was really worried. You were so pale. I pushed you too hard.”

“Don't be silly. This has nothing to do with you. I think I had more invested in returning that watch than I thought. All systems seem to be letting go.” Helen smiled and added, “Resting. All systems need rest. Nothing more.”

She handed Lucy
The Vicar of Wakefield
. “Here, you take over reading now.”

“Where are you?”

“The Primroses have just been thrown in jail.”

“How?”

“I skipped some. There was a lot of foolishness. I needed to cut to the chase.”

“You came to the right place. You're closing in on the glorious reveal.” Lucy plopped into the chair and opened it to her bookmark. “I forgot I left this in here.” She pulled out the laminated index card and flicked it in her hand. “I guess you saw this too.”

“I used to make up those poems all the time for Charlie and my grandkids. ‘Roses are red, Violets are blue, Eat your green beans, or no cake for you.' ”

“Then that's where he gets it. James wrote this one.”

“Oh . . . I'm sorry I read it.” Helen burst out a quick laugh. “I expected more elegance, intelligence . . . Something more from him for a love note.”

“No criticizing. That's exactly why I like it.” Lucy slid the card into the front of the book. “It was silly to bring it, though . . . On to our happy ending.”

Lucy trained her eyes on the book as if the physical action could keep her emotionally anchored to the hope of a glorious reveal and a satisfying ending.

Chapter 22

L
ucy spent the night tossing and turning and regretting her poor reading choice. She had thought it a delectable idea to read
Dracula
within her heavily curtained bed, the wind whistling in the windows. But hours later as she jumped at every creak and clink, and was sure she caught a whiff of death and decay seeping under her door, she knew she'd been wrong. Six times she softly padded to Helen's room, creeping across the floorboards, to listen for her soft snores. And when she did fall asleep, she only found herself in a worse state—running frantically and banging on locked doors, unable to escape, unable to breathe, and shrinking from the sun.

The next morning, Lucy marched into Helen's room with
Wives and Daughters
pulled up on her tablet and started to read.

“No hello?” Helen laughed. “And I thought we agreed on
The Tenant of Wildfell Hall
next.”

“I can't. I went for that walk yesterday afternoon, then last night . . .” Lucy moaned and slouched into the armchair. “I know we're here and this is Brontë country, but Stoker
got involved and I can't deal with any wives in attics, dark secrets, rotten, violent husbands, or window banging. Gaskell was a friend of Charlotte's, wrote her biography, so I figure that's close enough, and there's nothing creepy in Gaskell. Everything happens right in the open—arguments, yearnings, class warfare, misunderstandings—all in daytime and with the appropriate amount of angst and romance.”

“I think you need to get outside. Get some fresh air today.”

“I think I need to exorcise Dracula, and he's always indoors.” She nodded to the cup of broth Helen was sipping. “As soon as you finish that and I finish a couple chapters, I'll let you rest and go wandering. You can even read
The Tenent of Wildfell Hall
on your own.”

Helen narrowed her eyes. “Have you had breakfast yet?”

“A bite.”

“Go get some more or go for a walk. It's gorgeous out that window and you need to have some fun today. I'm sorry my frailty has gotten in our way.”

“Don't say that.” Lucy stood and handed Helen the tablet. “But I will take your advice and go. It wasn't a good night. I could use the food . . . and a walk.”

As Lucy headed to the stairs, a
thump
stopped her. She peeked in the cracked doorway to the bedroom next to Helen's.

Bette sat on the floor. Perfectly still.

“What are you doing?” Lucy pushed the door open.

Bette scrambled to stand. “The sheet slipped from my hand and
kerplop
.”

“Do you want some help?”

“I can't have a guest help change the sheets.” Bette pulled
the sheet tight and groaned with the effort to secure it on the underside of the mattress.

“Yes, you can.” Lucy stepped into the room.

Bette groaned again. “We replaced all the mattresses last month and they're thicker now. The bottom sheets don't fit.”

“They're super comfy.”

“I'm glad, but they're impossible to make.” Bette gripped the sheet again. “You wouldn't believe the cost of fine linens and I refuse to buy anything less. This old house, it deserves good linens.” She dropped her voice and started mumbling to herself. “Of all the things I need to do . . .”