Chapter 17
Bella tossed in bed that night. At last she fell into a fitful sleep only to wake in a cold sweat from a horrid nightmare that began at her father’s funeral. The coffin was lowered into the ground, but at the last moment the lid was raised and the duke—not her father—was resting within the intricate folds of white satin. She had screamed until her voice was a hoarse whisper, yet none of the dozens of mourners seemed to notice, and the lid was closed with an ear-piercing screech.
Heart pounding, Bella opened her eyes wide to stare at the pink canopy above her bed. Gasping in deep breaths of air, she sat up and flung the covers aside.
Something was wrong. She felt it deep in the marrow of her bones. She needed to see James. Now.
Pushing her feet into her slippers, she donned her robe and lit a candle on the end table by the bed. Opening the door, she glanced from side to side. Not surprisingly, the hall was empty in the dead of the night. She slipped from the room and headed for the master’s bedchamber, her feet silent on the plush Brussels runner. Light from her single candle cast eerie shadows on the flocked wallpaper, and she shivered. Specters of her nightmare lingered in her mind.
She came to Blackwood’s door and slowly opened it. Coates was asleep in a corner armchair, his chin resting on his chest. James lay in the bed, and even from across the room she could see his labored breathing. She approached the bed and set the candle beside a water pitcher and glass. His eyes were closed, and bright red splotches covered his forehead and cheeks. Reaching out, she touched his forehead.
Sweet Lord, he was scalding hot!
“Coates,” she whispered vehemently. “He’s burning with fever.”
Coates jumped to his feet. “Mrs. Sinclair, what are you doing here?”
“Never mind that,” she snapped. “The duke is fevered.”
Coates rushed over and at one look at Blackwood, he said, “I’ll send for Dr. Muddleton immediately.”
“Meanwhile, we must lower the fever with cold compresses,” Bella said.
“I’ll wake the staff.” Coates ran from the room.
Within minutes, the footmen and a maid arrived with basins of cold water and clean cloths. Compresses were applied to James’s face and chest.
James muttered in protest, but he never fully woke from his fevered state.
Dr. Muddleton arrived and removed the bandages. Bella stifled a gasp at the sight of the swollen and scarlet flesh inflamed around each of the black stitches. It was her nightmare turned to reality, and the thought that James could die froze in her brain.
The surgeon’s face was stark. “The wound is infected and a fever has come upon him. I must bleed him at once.” Reaching into his bag, he withdrew a glass jar full of leeches. Their slimy black bodies writhed within the glass.
“Is that necessary?” Bella asked.
Muddleton shot her a scalding look and replied with contempt that forbade any further argument. “Bloodletting balances the humors, and fevers are a result of too much blood. Now, do you call yourself a surgeon, Mrs. Sinclair?”
Coates met Bella’s wide-eyed glance, and they shared a look of complete helplessness.
“What else can be done for him?” Coates asked.
“Fevers are difficult beasts to manage. A patient may have moments of lucidity when the fever ebbs and he appears to be on the road to recovery. You must not let your expectations get the better of you, however, as he will continue to have incoherent mumblings when the fever rises, usually in the late afternoon and through the night. He’ll require constant care.”
Bella spoke up before Coates. “His Grace shall have whatever he needs.”
Muddleton tied James’s arm until the veins swelled, then cut him with a small blade until two bright lines of blood marred his skin. The surgeon then opened the jar and withdrew a leech, its wormlike body twisting in his fingers.
“I’ll have to apply two the first time,” Muddleton said. “It will take an hour to breathe the vein and for the leeches to become fully engorged.”
Bella’s gut twisted and she turned her head, unable to watch as the leeches latched on to James’s arm.
James lay in bed, his entire right side throbbing and burning. At times it felt as if a blade were repeatedly being thrust and twisted inside him. “The whiskey doesn’t help.”
“Dr. Muddleton says it’s necessary to treat the infection,” Coates said.
“I’m not talking about the infection, dammit. I’m speaking of the pain.”
Coates looked appalled at the misunderstanding, and James inwardly cursed himself. It was embarrassing to admit how much he was affected by the pain. He had always believed himself strong in mind and body, able to withstand pain. He enjoyed the vigorous pugilist exercise at Gentleman Jackson’s, and he had sparred with seasoned boxers as well as his bulky and rather ruthless colleague, Anthony Stevens. On numerous occasions, James had suffered bloody noses, black eyes, even broken ribs. But
this
pain was far worse than being pummeled by an opponent in a ring. This was a gnawing pain that could not be alleviated by whiskey or laudanum.
“Dr. Muddleton is expected soon, Your Grace. I shall speak with him about a stronger tonic,” Coates said.
James watched Coates busy himself about the room. James was familiar enough with his longtime manservant to know that he was anxious. Coates knew his master disliked the formality of being called Your Grace, and Coates never used the title unless in a mocking tone, or in public, or when he was nervous. And whenever Coates could not meet his master’s needs, he flitted around immersing himself with mundane tasks.
Coates adjusted drapes that were sufficiently closed, filled a glass of water on the bedside table that was already more than half full, and made to adjust James’s pillows.
“What day is it, Coates?”
“It’s Sunday afternoon, Your Grace.”
James frowned. “I’ve been in bed for a week now?”
“Yes.”
“Have they found the criminal?” James asked.
“No. The constables have searched the grounds and have kept an eye out for travelers through the Hertfordshire inns, but they have found no one.”
It would help to have a description of the man, but neither James nor Bobby had gotten a good look at him. All James had seen for certain during their scuffle for the pistol was the man’s fair hair, and half the men in St. Albans had the same color hair.
James’s head began to pound, cutting off all thought of the criminal. “The blasted fever comes at night, doesn’t it?”
Coates stopped fluffing James’s pillows and looked his master in the eye. “It arrives earlier than nightfall. It comes on after noon and lasts all through the night.”
James tried to move his legs. He felt stiff, but the throbbing in his side was much worse than the discomfort in his limbs.
“I’ll ask Mrs. O’Brien to prepare barley water,” Coates said. “My mum always said barley water strengthens the body.”
As James looked up at Coates, the servant’s face blurred before his eyes. James blinked and when he opened his eyes he swore Coates looked just like the Honorable Barnard Bathwell of the Old Bailey. He had the same beady eyes, bulbous nose, and squat figure as the judge. Even the white hair was the same, although Judge Bathwell wore a wig and Coates’s hair looked naturally white.
“Coates, by any chance are you related to Judge Bathwell?”
“No, Your Grace. Why would you ask?”
“You look just like him. He was the presiding judge for my last criminal client, Pumpkin O’Dool, you see, and Bathwell’s appearance is quite fresh in my mind.”
“Isn’t Judge Bathwell under five feet tall, Your Grace?”
James smiled. “That he is, Coates.” His manservant did recognize the similarities.
But Coates straightened to his full height, and James suspected he thought the comparison unfavorable after all.
“I’m an inch shy of six feet, Your Grace.”
“But the similarities! You even share the same mole on your left cheek the size of a shilling. Look in the glass, Coates.”
Coates didn’t turn to look in the cheval glass. Rather his brows slanted in a frown, and he reached out to touch James’s forehead, then stepped back abruptly. “I shall go see if Dr. Muddleton has arrived.”
“Not that bumbling bloodsucker!” James shouted. “He’s an idiot. I’ll not allow those leeches near me again. I feel horrid afterwards, listless and drained.”
“But, Your Grace—”
James waved his hand, cutting his manservant off. “Very well. Go then. I’m feeling tired again, blast it.”
James shut his eyes and barely had time to rest before the door swung open and slammed against the wall. In marched Dr. Muddleton, followed by Bella and Coates.
“Ah, Bella. It’s been days since I’ve seen you,” James said.
Coates answered, “She was here an hour ago, Your Grace.”
James smiled at Bella. She looked beautiful as always, with wisps of auburn hair framing her oval face. Yet there were shadows under her emerald eyes, and she looked tired—almost as tired as he felt. He wanted her to sit beside him and read, and he had a vague recollection of her doing just that. He reached out a hand, but the annoying surgeon took it as a sign for him to examine him instead.
“Your Grace,” Muddleton said, pressing his meaty palm to his forehead, “the fever has returned.” Muddleton rolled up his sleeves. “I must bleed him at once.”
“No!” James bellowed. “No more leeches!”
Muddleton’s lips thinned, and a swift shadow of annoyance swept across his face. “Very well then, Your Grace.”
Muddleton turned to Coates and Bella. “He needs to drink water.”
“What of the wound?” Bella asked. “The swelling and redness remain.”
“No matter. Soon I shall remove the stitches,” the surgeon said.
James could hear the worry in Bella’s voice and see the tiny frown lines between her brows. He tried to smile, to put her at ease, but he was so damned tired all he could do was close his eyes.
“Bella! Bella are you there?”
She woke with a jerk and was at the side of the bed in a heartbeat. “Yes, I’m here.” She removed the cloth on his forehead. Once cool, it was as hot as James’s flesh.
“I was worried you had gone,” James said.
“You needn’t worry about that.” She raised his head and placed a glass to his lips. “You must drink more water.”
He shook his head and pushed the glass away. Water splashed on her sleeve and across the sheets. She bit her lip in dismay at her utter helplessness.
“Please, you must drink.” But either he didn’t hear her or he had no interest.
It had been ten days since she had found him fevered, and she was in a hell of her own making. Muddleton had been correct about one fact—the fever abated in the early morning hours and returned with each passing afternoon with the vengeance of a spurned lover.
Bella refused to leave his side when the fever struck. She spent hours changing the cool compresses on his forehead and lifting the water glass to his lips. Only when the endless nights had finally grayed into dawn and the fever broke would she leave to allow Coates to take over and care for his master. She would then eat, see to her personal needs, and nap if she was able.
In the back of Bella’s mind, she knew she should take time to search for the ledger when she was not tending to the duke, but in her exhaustion she cared naught. If James died from the wound Rupert inflicted, she would never forgive herself. Rupert could bribe whomever he wished to blame her for her husband’s death, and she’d welcome the chance to spend the rest of her life in jail.
Unbeknownst to Rupert, he wouldn’t be completely wrong regarding Roger’s demise.
She’d never felt guilt over Roger’s death, but James’s ...
She cleansed his face and neck, all the while praying for a better night than the last. His handsome face was ruddy; his blue eyes held the glassy gleam of illness. He looked haggard and exhausted. Dr. Muddleton arrived daily and his prognosis grew more and more dismal with each passing day.
Harriet kept Bella informed of any household news. Bobby had fully recovered and was back in the stables. The “criminal” still had not been found, and Harriet had whispered in her ear that Rupert had not been heard from or spotted since the attacks.
James opened his eyes. “Read to me, Bella.”
She picked up the Bible. “I shall continue where I left off in John.”
“No. read what you’ve written.”
“Pardon?”
“Your next article for the
Times.
Read it to me.”
She was stunned. He was having an incredibly lucid moment.
“You must have written something all these nights,” he said.
She had, but it was not a political piece. She had recalled reading about a young surgeon who had treated the fallen soldiers during Waterloo. He had since moved to London to practice medicine. His new methods of treatment were controversial, but the positive results could not be denied.