The Frost Fair (18 page)

Dr. Fraser was the only other person whose presence Meg found comforting. He came to the sickroom twice a day to see his patient. The only thing he did was feel her forehead, take her pulse, peer at her and grunt. He would say nothing in response to Meg's persistent questions and alarms, but she nevertheless felt reassured by his presence and by the matter-of-fact imperturbability of his manner.

Lady Carrier, on the other hand, never failed to annoy Meg when she visited the sickroom. She was always full of concern, whispering the most sincere good wishes and asking interested and anxious questions regarding the patient's progress, but she was obviously unwilling to step over the threshold. And as for her daughters, she explained that it was she who kept them away. “I told them with the strictest firmness to stay away,” she admitted. “After all, neither one of them would be of the slightest use to you. Sybil's constitution is too delicate, you know, and Trixie, with her mind so preoccupied with the impediments her brother keeps throwing in the path of her romance, is completely absent-minded. Besides, there's little point in endangering their health at a time like this. The very last thing we need in this house is another invalid.”

While Meg couldn't blame Lady Carrier for protecting her daughters' health, the woman's lack of graciousness did not endear her to Meg's heart. Even though she was relieved not to have the girls underfoot in the sickroom, she wished that Lady Carrier could have shown a greater generosity of spirit. She never failed to make Meg feel like a troublesome intruder, while Geoffrey went out of his way to
keep
her from feeling that way. Matters seemed to have taken a complete reversal in that regard. Suddenly it was Geoffrey who was trying to make her feel at home and the others who were behaving churlishly.

But aside from his exceptional devotion to her aunt's needs and his scrupulous kindness as a host, Meg found Geoffrey's behavior puzzling. The intimacy which had developed between them on the evening of the Habish's dinner party had somehow dissipated. He was invariably thoughtful of her needs, but he seemed to keep a distance between them. It was as if he regretted ever having let her see the side of him that was open and warm. Was it fear of entangling himself with yet another troublesome female that had caused him to withdraw? Was he afraid of her … or of himself?

No matter how many times the question popped into her mind, she pushed it aside. She couldn't let herself think of anything but her aunt's recovery. It was a very foolish, superstitious sort of feeling, she knew, but if she ever let her mind wander from the problem of her aunt's illness, she was beset with guilt. It was as if she'd set herself the task of
willing
her aunt back to health, and the task required her complete concentration.

By the third night of Isabel's illness, her fever seemed worse than ever. Isabel alternately shivered and perspired, crying out hoarsely after long silences words that made no sense. Meg hobbled anxiously about the room (for her ankle had been feeling stronger during the last two days, and Geoffrey had provided her with his walking stick), jumping with a nervous start every time Isabel made a sound. At last, Geoffrey, who'd been watching her from a chair near the fireplace with knit brows, ordered her to bed in a voice that brooked no argument. She threw herself upon her pillows, too exhausted to remove her dress and, after a bout of weeping, fell into a stertorous sleep.

She awakened in broad daylight, with no idea of how long she'd slept. Throwing open the draperies, she looked out upon the dreariest prospect she'd ever viewed. A steady rain was falling from leaden skies, washing away the last vestiges of the snow which had brought her to this pass and driving down all but a few of the remaining autumn leaves. Those that still managed to cling to their branches had lost their color. The little specks of gold and red that had pleased her eyes only a few days ago had now regressed to a faded brown, adding a final note of gloom to the ravaged landscape.
Good Lord
! she thought in horror,
is this some sort of warning … a foreboding of the day ahead?

Without changing her gown or combing her hair, she hobbled down the corridor as quickly as her injury allowed and threw open the door of the sickroom. There on the bed, sitting erect, was a wide-awake aunt, sipping contentedly from a glass that Geoffrey was holding at her lips. “Aunt Bel!” Meg cried in delight. “You're awake!”

Over Isabel's head, Geoffrey (looking completely disreputable with a two-day growth of beard) gave her one of his rare, disconcerting grins. “The fever's broken, Meg. I think your aunt is going to be all right.”

This opinion was seconded by Dr. Fraser when he arrived shortly afterwards. At his first glimpse of Isabel's alert eyes, he gave her a twisted little smile. “So, lass, ye've broken yer fever at last. It's aboot time, too. Ye've been keepin' us all in a curfuffle owre ye, ye ken.”

“Meg,” Isabel asked weakly, drawing back fearfully against her pillows and pulling her comforter up to her neck, “you haven't permitted this dreadful man to …” But a fit of dry, hacking coughs kept her from finishing.

“Aye, after the fever comes the coughin',” Fraser said to Geoffrey with a knowing nod, ignoring Isabel's insult.

“Dr. Fraser's been a wonderful help to you, my dear,” Meg said to the horrified patient softly. “Don't think so harshly of him. It's not like you to hold a grudge.”

“A grudge?” Isabel echoed, too weak and bemused to argue the issue with her usual spirit. “It isn't a grudge … but … is there no other medical man in the vicinity whom we could call …?”

“Hold yer clack, woman,” the doctor ordered in considerable asperity. “There's no better medical man in the whole of Britain, and dinna ye ferget it. Geoffrey, lad, take yersel' oot, if ye please, and
you
, ma'am, will lower yer nightie frae yer shoulder so I can look at yer chest.”

“Never!” Isabel sputtered, coughing and burrowing fearfully into the mound of pillows like a frightened rabbit.

“Lady Meg, yer aunt is a gowky wanwyt! Hark ye here, ma'am. Y're too auld and I'm too thrang to spend time wi' sich foolishness. Do ye think the sight o' yer bare bosom will egg me on t'
ravish
ye? I've seen ye afore, ye ken. Who do ye think it was put the strappin' on ye, eh? Gi'e owre, and let me harken to yer chest!”

Isabel, her eyes wide as saucers, stared at him numbly while Meg, biting her underlip to keep from laughing, pulled down the shoulder of her aunt's gown. The doctor briskly examined his patient, muttered a few directions to Meg about the ingredients he required for a hot tisane to be administered to his patient four times daily, snapped his bag shut and stamped from the room.

Isabel, her chest heaving with rapid breaths, sank back and stared wide-eyed at the door. Meg prepared herself to deal with her aunt's outrage. Isabel might chafe and stew from the sting of the doctor's blunt manner, but as far as Meg was concerned, the Scotsman had brought Aunt Bel through a dangerous illness and would therefore always have her loyal support. “He called
me
a gowky wanwyt once when I dropped a glass,” Meg offered comfortingly. “I don't think he means to be insulting.”

Isabel turned slowly and looked at her niece with a thoughtful intensity. “You know, Meg,” she said in a voice that was weak but surprisingly calm, “I've been wondering if, when I'm better, it might not be a good idea, after all, for me to dye my hair.”

Chapter Thirteen

A week later, Meg awakened to a very different sort of morning. Though the prospect from her window was as November-bare as before, the sun seemed to put a sparkle on everything, even the bare trees. A brisk wind made the branches dance and sent little white clouds scurrying to the horizon across the vast expanse of bright blue sky. As she stood in the window embrasure, lifting her tumbled, thick red hair away from her neck and letting it sift through her fingers, her eyes roamed over the south fields that, except for the section of home woods to her left, spread out before her in unbroken, undulating swells that seemed to reach to the ends of the world. She had a most uncommon urge to dash out just as she was, in nothing but a thin nightdress, and run madly across the fields to the far horizon, the wind in her face and her hair streaming out behind her. The impulse made her laugh at herself. She had better restrain such wildly romantic fancies—that was just the sort of nonsensical urge that had ruined Caro Lamb.

Just then her eye fell on a little brown rabbit which had come out of the woods and was hopping across the fields following the very route on which she'd chosen to make her imaginary run. While she watched, the tiny animal stopped, turned its head, lifting its twitching nose in the air and sniffed. She could almost believe the little creature was looking right at her. “Why don't you come?” it seemed to be saying. “Come out and have an adventure.”

Why not?
she thought. She needn't run about in a night dress, but she
could
venture out into the air. She'd been cooped up long enough. Today, with a bit of luck—and
that
depended on finding Geoffrey Carrier in the right mood—she would do just what the rabbit advised: go out and have an adventure.

She dressed herself quickly in the green jaconet (for it was the one dress Geoffrey had ever said he admired), brushed her hair, pinned it up into a careless knot at the top of her head and went down the hall to see her aunt. Just as she was about to enter the room, Dr. Fraser came out. The dear man had been wonderfully faithful about continuing to call on his patient in spite of the fact that Isabel, mending rapidly, never failed to say something abusive about him in his presence. “Good morning, Doctor,” Meg said cheerfully. “Have you seen Aunt Bel already?”

“Already? 'Tis past ten, lass. I've been makin' calls these past three hours.”

“Past ten? Oh, dear,
I am a
slugabed. How does my aunt today?”

“Thrivin', fair thrivin'. We'll ha'e her aunt up and aboot in no time,” he said, clapping his battered old hat upon his head and striding off down the hall with a step that she would have described as almost capering. She watched him as he disappeared down the hall, wondering what had caused the usually dour Scot to be so cheerful, when a completely surprising sound assailed her ears—the good doctor was
whistling
!

“What on earth did you say to Dr. Fraser to set him in such high spirits, Aunt Bel?” Meg asked as soon as she entered. “I've never seen him quite so cheerful.”

Isabel was sitting up against her pillows, a breakfast tray on her lap. Her hair had been brushed neatly back from her face, and she'd been dressed in a fresh, lace-trimmed nightgown that made her look almost girlish. In fact, Meg found her appearance very encouraging. Isabel's eyes were clear and the sick pallor of her complexion had almost disappeared. Except for a persistent, dry cough and a tendency to tire in the late afternoon, Isabel showed small trace of the illness that had laid her low.

Isabel didn't immediately respond to Meg's question. Instead, she raised her teacup to her lips and took a sip of the still-steaming brew. “
Was
he cheerful?” she asked after a moment.

“
Out o doot
, as he'd say himself. Why, the fellow actually
pranced
down the hall, and, Bel, you'll never credit it when I tell you what he was doing.”

“What
was
he doing?” Isabel asked, lifting her eyes from her cup to throw a quick, darting glance at her niece.

“He was whistling! Actually whistling. What did you say to him, my love?”

“Nothing at all,” Isabel said sourly, a spot of color appearing in her cheeks. “Why should Dr. Fraser's good spirits have anything to do with me?”

“I don't know. I only hoped that perhaps you'd been kind to him for once. He really is the dearest man. I don't know why you persist in holding him in dislike.”

“The man is a presumptuous lout, and I don't see why we spend so much time talking about him. May we not speak of something else for a change?”

“Of course, dearest, if that's what you wish. Just let me tell you that the doctor gave me good news of you. He says you'll be up and ‘aboot' in no time.”

“I'm glad to hear that,” Isabel said, her eyes fixed on her cup. “That means we shall soon be able to leave here and return home.”

Meg, about to pick up Isabel's breakfast tray, stopped in her tracks.
Return home
. Of course! If the doctor's prognosis was correct, it was likely that Isabel would be ready for travel by the time the week was out. Meg sank into a chair, her mind in a whirl. She hadn't been thinking of home for
days
. How strange, when reaching home had been her primary goal from the moment she'd decided not to wed Charles Isham. Stranger still, why should the prospect of an imminent departure depress her spirits?

She'd been away from home for more than a fortnight and hadn't troubled to send word to any of her friends about her situation. They must all be wondering what had become of her. And if Isham had already returned to London and let slip the news that their betrothal was at an end, all her friends would be in a turmoil. They were completely ignorant of her whereabouts and would surely be in a flurry of concern. She must begin to plan her return home as soon as possible. But, she realized with a shock, she was not yet ready to take her leave of Yorkshire and this house.

“Is something the matter, love?” Isabel asked.

Something was very much the matter, but Meg didn't want to think about what it was. “No, Aunt Bel, just thinking,” she said, shaking herself into action. “I'm afraid my head is full of cobwebs today. Do you know what I'm going to do this afternoon? I'm going to go
riding
! There's nothing wrong with me that a few hours in the open air won't cure.”