Three Weddings And A Kiss (25 page)

It was not impossible.

A few extra months, he told himself.
Long enough to see their baby.
That would be wonderful. And if it did turn out to be impossible, at least he would have given Gwendolyn a child, which would surely gladden her heart and banish any sentimental inclination to mourn for him.

Nevertheless, her wishing to remain here was not a good sign. She needed to start a new life, in a new place, away from sad memories. But Eversham would arrive eventually, Dorian assured himself. Her mentor would set her right.

Dorian drew his wife tightly against him. “I shall try to maintain a positive attitude,” he promised softly.

“And you must speak to Cook,” Gwendolyn muttered into his shirt front. “Remind her who
is the doctor in this house
. I ordered a curry for dinner—and it must be
hot
.”

He chuckled.
“Yes, crosspatch.”
He kissed the top of her head. “But first, let us see what Doctor Dorian can do to sweeten your temper.”

7

T
en days later, Gwendolyn was recalling that conversation and the methods Dorian had employed to sweeten her temper. He had used the same techniques every day since, kissing and caressing the irritation away, drawing her out of her annoying moods and into his strong arms, to take her to heaven and back, and leave her dazed with bliss.

Now, sitting in Mr. Kneebones’s surgery, she focused on those blissful sensations in order to keep her temper from taking over and leading her to do the physician a severe, possibly fatal, bodily injury.

It was hardly the first time she’d humbled herself with doctors, she told herself, and Dorian was far more important than her pride.

She treated Kneebones to an apologetic smile. “I only want to know whether those materials prove absolutely what made Mrs. Camoys’s brain start breaking down.”

Kneebones scowled at her, then at the autopsy report in his hand. “One cannot prove anything
absolutely
in such cases. One makes logical inferences based on observable facts and the patient’s history. Mrs. Camoys did not drink to excess or indulge in opium eating, which rules out toxic insanity. She had not sustained a high fever prior to or during the decline. And if she had suffered a blow to the head, as you surmise, do you not think Mr. Budge, the family physician, would have mentioned that little detail in his account of her medical history?”

“What if he didn’t know?” Gwendolyn persisted.

“Budge is a competent man. I reckon he knows a concussion when ne sees one.”

“But one can’t, precisely,
see
them,” Gwendolyn said. “She had lovers. What if one of her lovers did it? If he did as great an injury as we’re talking about, she might not have even remembered.” She tipped her head to one side. “Did you question her maid, by any chance? Servants often know more family secrets than the family does.”

Kneebones took off his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. “I do wonder how it is that Lord Rawnsley is not in a straitwaistcoat by now,” he muttered.

“That is what I am wondering, too,” she said. “Otherwise I should not have come to pester you. I know there must be a logical explanation, but I cannot find it.”

Kneebones set his spectacles back on his nose. “That may be due to an overactive—and highly
melodramatic
—imagination and underactive attention to observable facts.”

“Tell me where I’m wrong,” she said.

He pushed the autopsy report toward her. “Let us suppose your little theory is correct, Lady Rawnsley. Let us suppose Mrs. Camoys’s condition arose from a blow to the head, sustained many months before the early symptoms of traumatic insanity appeared, as often happens. What difference does it make? Her son’s history easily allows for physical violence, fever, alcoholism, not to mention a host of morbid conditions of the system, all of which produce similar consequences. Perhaps this has not occurred to you. Nor do you seem aware that a man may inherit character, and with it a predisposition toward an irrational, self-destructive mode of life. You fail to take into account the patient’s degenerate morals, irrational behavior, and savage appearance. No matter how the initial damage began, these symptoms clearly indicate progressive deterioration.”

At this, Gwendolyn’s fraying patience snapped. She stood up. “My husband is not and never has been degenerate, irrational, or self-destructive,” she said stiffly. “He has a powerful instinct for self-preservation—else he would never have survived a month in the London slums, let alone years.” She took up the autopsy report and stuffed it into her purse. “I cannot believe you overlooked that,” she said, “and I cannot believe that you, a man of science, would diagnose him as insane, simply on account of his
hair
.”

She stalked out.

Lord Rawnsley did not know that his wife had been quarreling with Mr. Kneebones in Okehampton. She was supposed to be making a tour of possible hospital sites with Hoskins and quarreling with him, because his orders were to (
a
) find fault with all sites and (
b
) keep her busy until teatime.

Unaware that she was racing home at this very minute, obstinately immune to all Hoskins’s delaying tactics, Dorian stood by the library fireplace. His hands were clasped tightly at his back and his gaze was fixed on a disconcertingly young and gentlemanly physician.

Eversham stood at the library table. Having finished perusing Gwendolyn’s latest notes, he was now thoughtfully perusing Dorian.

“She’s very near the mark with your mother’s case,” Eversham said. “The same theory occurred to me when I read your letter and your copies of Borson’s materials.” He smiled faintly.
“Very handsomely written they were, my lord.”

“Never mind my penmanship,” Dorian said. “You were about to tell me what you learned in Gloucestershire.”

Eversham’s arrival had been
delayed,
it turned out, on account of a detour to the Rawnsley Hall estate in pursuit of information about Aminta Camoys. He had made the detour partly because Dorian’s letter had aroused his medical curiosity and partly because of Bertie Trent’s tear-filled litany of Dorian’s noble and heroic qualities. It had taken them several days to locate Mother’s former maid.

“Shall I be delicate or brutally direct?” Eversham asked.

Dorian’s heart pounded. “Brutal, if you please.”

“Your mother had been having an affair with your Uncle Hugo,” Eversham said dispassionately. “They were meeting secretly, in the estate’s laundry house, when her maid came to warn them that your grandfather had returned unexpectedly. Your mother panicked, tripped, and hit her head on a stone sink. Since she seemed to recover almost instantly, there seemed no reason to summon the doctor—and risk discovery of the accident’s circumstances.”

Eversham went on to explain concussions, which could be insidiously deceptive: internal injury with no external evidence, sometimes no discernible symptoms for weeks, months, even years—by which time it would be difficult to connect the symptoms with an apparently minor accident of long before. Thus she had been misdiagnosed initially as suffering a “decline,” or constitutional breakdown.

“As you may not be aware,” Eversham said, “the brain functions—”

“I know how it works,” Dorian cut in. “Gwendolyn explained that—and how it breaks down as well.”

Eversham nodded. “It seems to break down in more or less the same way following a trauma—a blow, for instance—as it does in a number of other, quite different maladies. The point is, my lord, your mother evidently suffered a severe concussion, which it is impossible to inherit.”

He took up one of the sheets containing Gwendolyn’s notes. “Furthermore, Her Ladyship has detected in you none of the usual symptoms of brain degeneration. That is not surprising, since there are none to detect.”

Eversham eyed Dorian assessingly. “You are remarkably fit,” he added, “especially for a member of the upper classes. Your brain is in excellent working order. Both your penmanship—evidencing superior motor control—and the logical and orderly presentation of highly personal and emotionally-laden information leave that in no doubt.” He returned his attention to the sheet in his hand. “She reports no lethargy or fatigue. No restlessness or sleeplessness. No
difficulties with attention to detail and concentration—as your proposal for the hospital clearly demonstrates
.” He cleared his throat. “And it would appear that the reproductive functions are—er—functioning.” He looked up, smiling. “I congratulate you, my lord. That is a pleasant event to look forward to, is it not?”

His Lordship had only just managed to digest the matter of a concussion he could not possibly have inherited. It took him a moment to catch up with the rest, during which he stared stupidly at Eversham.

It took another moment to force the words out. “What are you saying?” he asked, dazed. “Look forward to—? I have—
You
have—” He thrust his hair back. “Haven’t you overlooked something?
The things.
The—the ‘visual chimera’—‘first you see stars, then the pain hits.’ Physiological phenomena, common to a host of neurological ailments, my wife said.”

Eversham nodded.
“Indeed, quite common.
Among others, these are classic symptoms of migraine headache. That, I collect, is what’s ailing you.”

“Migraine?”
Dorian repeated.
“As in…‘
megrims
’?”

“Not merely headache—which is what most people mean by ‘megrims’—but severe, debilitating headaches. Still, they’re not fatal, for all that.”

“You are telling me,” Dorian ground out, “that all this time…” His face heated. “All these months, I have been playing bloody tragic hero—and all I’ve got is a bleeding, damned
headache
?”

Eversham frowned and returned the paper to the pile with the rest and straightened them, while Dorian listened to the silence stretch on and wondered what would come to fill it. Eversham had just said they were headaches. Not fatal. Why then, was he hesitating?

Gwendolyn had thought she heard Dorian’s voice, but when she reached the library door, all was quiet within. She opened it for a quick peep to be sure.

At that moment, another, equally familiar masculine voice broke the silence.

“I wish I could say otherwise, my lord, but the ailment is incurable. Though it has been studied for centuries, it remains a medical enigma. I have never yet encountered two cases precisely alike. I am not sure I can even promise you relief, which I deeply regret, for I know it is murderously painful. And I cannot promise that it will not be passed on to your offspring, for there is strong evidence that it is an inherited predisposition.”

A choked sob escaped her.

Two masculine heads swiveled sharply, and two gazes—one blue, one golden—shot to her before she could retreat.

“Oh,” she said. “I do beg your pardon. I did not mean to interrupt.” She hastily shut the door…and fled.

Gwendolyn ran blindly down the hall, yanked the front door open, hurtled through it and down the steps—and ran straight into Bertie.

“I say, Gwen, where are you—”

She pushed past him and hurried to his gelding, which one of the stablemen was leading away.

She snatched the reins from the groom.

Bertie hurried up to her. “I say, Gwen, what’s happened?”

“Give me a lift up,” she said tightly.

He bent and clasped his hands together. “Don’t tell me Cat’s gone and bolted again,” he said as he hoisted her up. “I thought he’d get on well enough with Eversham, and I was just setting out to let Dain know, when I seen you turn into the drive and never was so astonished in all my life. You were supposed to be in—

“Gwendolyn!”

Bertie swung round. “There he is, Gwen.
Ain’t gone after all.
What
was
you—”

“Let go of my foot, Bertie.”

He let go, but Dorian reached them in the same moment and caught hold of the bridle. “My dear, I don’t know what you—”

“I am a trifle…out of sorts,” she choked out. “I need…a ride.
To clear my head.”

“What you need is a cup of tea,” he said soothingly. “I know it was a shock to see Eversham, but I—”

“Oh, I wish he’d never come!” she cried. Her voice shook, and her eyes filled. “But that is silly, I know. It is always better to know…the facts. And you have made me…so happy—and I love you—and I shall love you always, no—no matter what h-happens.” Her voice broke then, and with it the last shred of her control. She wept, helplessly, and when he reached up and grasped her waist and lifted her down, all she could do was cling to him, sobbing.

“I love you, too, sweet, with all my heart,” he said gently. “But I do believe you’ve got this backwards.”

“No, I heard,” she sobbed. “I heard what Eversham said—and he knows. He’s a p-proper doctor. Incurable, he said. Kneebones was right and I was wrong, and I should have known b-better.”

“Backwards, indeed,” Dorian said as he threaded his fingers through her hair. “The London experts, Borson, and Kneebones all got it wrong. So did
I
. You knew better than any of us. I feel like an utter dolt. But your Mr. Eversham says my brain is functioning and one cannot inherit concussion, and so I collect you are stuck with me—and my confounded megrims—indefinitely.”

She lifted her head, and through her tears, she saw the truth glimmering in his golden eyes.
“M-m-megrims?”

“Migraine, he calls it,” Dorian said. “Providence has played you another joke, I’m afraid. You came all this way to nurse and comfort a dying madman in his last wretched months, and advance the cause of medical science by studying his fascinating case…” He smiled. “And you wound up with a perfectly healthy fellow with a boring old headache.”

She reached up and stroked her husband’s hair back, blinking at him through the tears that continued to fall though she no longer had anything to cry about. “Well, I love you anyway,” she said.

She heard the gelding snort, and looked round to see the groom leading the horse to the stables and a worried-looking Bertie hurrying back to her and Dorian.

“By Jupiter’s thunderbolts—I say—Good gad, Cat, what’s happened? What’s she bawling about? I
never seen
Gwen do that before.”