A commotion announced the return of the doctor.
“Any change?” Harvey asked as he entered the room. His face snapped into a frown as he noted Emily’s new position. “Are you mad? Allowing blood to rush to the head will kill her!”
“She is resting more comfortably,” Drew swore. Normally he deferred to experts, but he was suddenly seized by the certainty that Emily’s life was in his hands. “The change in position has not caused any bleeding.”
Dr. Harvey rested his palm on Emily’s forehead. “But it is making her fever worse. I will blood her once more to drain the humors, but if she does not respond, I must try a blister.”
Drew froze in horror. Blistering was a last resort that sought to wake a comatose patient by inflicting excruciating pain to the chest or shoulder.
“My God!” The thready whisper was hardly a sound, but it exploded through the silence like a bomb.
“She’s awake.” Drew’s legs weakened in relief.
“That’s encouraging, certainly,” said Harvey. “But I must still blood her to drain the fever.”
“NO!” Emily moved restlessly, though her frenzy would have gone unnoticed if he had not been watching so closely. “Can’t . . . believe . . . England . . . barbaric,” she managed between gasps for air. “Not . . . third . . . world.”
“No,” Drew echoed. “She has lost enough blood already.”
Emily’s eyes cracked open, then widened in obvious horror at the sight of the doctor, who was already grasping her arm in preparation for his work.
“Quack!” she gasped. “Filthy. I’ll sue. Remove those dirty hands this instant.”
“She is delirious.” Harvey pulled the box containing his lancet from a pocket.
Drew took in Harvey’s appearance for the first time. Blood spattered his jacket sleeve. Dirt clung to his fingernails. A malevolent odor of food, sweat, and disease permeated his clothing. Closing his fingers over Harvey’s arm, he pulled him away from the bed. “Leave her alone,” he ordered coldly. “Your services are no longer required.”
“You wish her to die of fever? She is clearly out of her head.”
Drew couldn’t explain his instincts, for Emily’s delirium was obvious. On the other hand, changing her position had revived her despite Harvey’s claims to the contrary. Praying that he was not making a mistake, he hardened his expression.
“I am not the one who is killing her. She is closer to death now than when you commenced treatment. Good day, sir.”
Snorting in fury, Harvey slammed out of the room.
“Water.”
Drew poured a glass of barley water and gently raised her shoulders so she could drink. The motion drained every vestige of color from her face. He quickly lowered her. Using a spoon, he managed to dribble nearly a pint of water into her mouth before she was satisfied.
“No bleeding,” she begged thinly. Her fingers scratched against the sheet in agitation.
“No bleeding, my dear,” he promised, stilling her hand with his own.
“How much” —she stopped to catch her breath— “blood lost?”
“Six cups,” he admitted. “But you also bled freely when you fell.”
“Need . . . transfusion,” she whispered. “I’m . . . AB positive. Any blood . . . will do.”
He shook his head. Her delirium was clearly worse. “Rest now, my dear. You are feverish. Pray God it will not grow worse.”
“Aspirin . . .” Energy exhausted, her voice trailed away as she slipped back into unconsciousness.
* * * *
Pain nagged Cherlynn awake. Something was wrong. She sifted her memory. London. Christie’s. Queen Elizabeth. Broadbanks. Hands on her shoulders. A blue flash, yet no one had been near her. Or was she recalling a nightmare? The subconscious could be very strange. Hers had connected the actors in their Regency costumes with a doctor from her current book, producing a nightmare in which she had been victimized by just such a hidebound charlatan. Ridiculous, of course. It was nearly the twenty-first century.
Where was she? The effort to crack one eye open left her panting. Even the auto accident hadn’t made her
this
weak. Her head seemed to float tenuously above her body, each heartbeat reverberating inside. Sharper pains identified the spot that had hit the stone hearth. She scanned the room as best she could without moving her head. The partially open curtains of her canopied bed revealed a small table and a chair occupied by a woman wearing a blue uniform jumper. The room was not part of a hospital, though the woman might be a nurse. Where was she?
Exhaustion closed her eye. But the view nagged at her mind. The woman was wearing a skirt so long it would reach her ankles when she stood. Impractical.
But the answer was obvious, she realized in relief. It was a Regency maid’s costume. One of the actresses must know enough first aid to look after her until the ambulance arrived. In the meantime, they had moved her into a bedroom.
“Water,” she begged, recognizing an urgent need. Her voice came out in a seductive whisper instead of her usual growl. Her mouth was dryer than she had thought.
“Oh, my lady, thank heaven you are finally awake,” said her companion. “Everyone will be so relieved.” She turned as if to leave.
“Water,” she repeated, reminding herself that she was now a marchioness and entitled to be addressed as a lady. The guide must have revealed her identity. Inevitable, of course, now that she needed medical care. What would the tabloids make of this accident?
But it wasn’t an accident
. Goose bumps tickled her arms.
“At once, my lady.” The woman grabbed a glass and spooned the foulest-tasting water imaginable into her mouth.
“No straws?” she grumbled between sips. “How long until the ambulance arrives?”
Confusion gave way to motherly solicitude. “Now don’t you worry about a thing, my lady. Dr. McClarren warned us you might be unsettled when you finally woke,” she said soothingly. “Four days unconscious will do that to a body.”
“Four days?” she croaked. Good God, why was she not in a hospital? But waves of weakness dragged at her mind. Her mouth refused to work.
“You were right, my lady. Whatever happened to tear his lordship away, he cares for you. He’s hardly left your side in all that time.”
Water dribbled down her chin, the weakness so pronounced she could no longer swallow.
Footsteps approached the bed.
“She’s awake, Lady Clifford,” reported the woman.
“So I see. And about time, too. Thank you, Grace.”
“Who—?” choked Cherlynn, opening her eye again. A middle-aged woman was shooing the maid away. She also wore a long gown, but hers was made of muslin. A lace cap adorned black hair shot through with silver.
“I told Charles you would be right as rain after a good sleep,” she said in satisfaction. “I can’t wait to leave. Now that everyone is gone, I have no one to converse with. Lady Ledbetter has invited us to Brighton for the summer. You must convince Charles to go. You can claim weakness. The journey to Yorkshire will be too arduous, so you need the healthy air of Brighton. Yes, that will do quite nicely. Rupert Ledbetter is staying with his mother. Despite being a younger son, he is a comely lad who will inherit a considerable fortune from his grandmother. He can squire us about until Thurston’s wedding. He won’t do as a husband, of course, but his credit is good enough to restore yours.”
Cherlynn tried to interrupt the flow of words, but no sound emerged.
“I am quite disappointed in Charles. Including you in this party has done you no good at all! He should have left you at Clifford. You haven’t entered society yet and hardly know your brother’s friends. But even youth won’t excuse your gauche behavior. One would think you eight rather than eighteen. What happened to your manners? No lady would fall so inelegantly. I nearly swooned from mortification. Lady Colburn succumbed to vapors on the spot, and Miss Raeburn couldn’t get away from you fast enough. Poor Lady Redtree burst into tears and had to be helped from the room. To think that a daughter of mine could cause such a scandal! That is why we must go to Brighton to repair the damage. If people think you are afraid to appear in public, you will never find a husband. Now enough of your megrims. Four days abed for a mere bump is beyond frivolous. You must speak to Charles immediately.” The woman reached out as if to jerk her to her feet.
“W-who are you?” Cherlynn managed, shrinking away.
Lady Clifford jumped back, emitting screeches that reverberated through Cherlynn’s pounding head. “Ungrateful wretch! You have been listening to that so-called doctor’s nonsense. He must think that keeping you abed will increase his fee. Don’t ever address your mother so foolishly again.”
Mother.
The petulant voice continued, but Cherlynn ceased trying to make sense of the words, welcoming the return of blackness.
The next time she woke, a man occupied the chair. Or was she still dreaming? She recognized him – the sixth Marquess of Broadbanks, whose portrait hung above the great hall fireplace.
Identifying him brought relief. This was either a nightmare or a fever-induced hallucination, which explained the woman who claimed to be her mother. Would Broadbanks think he was her father?
He met her eyes. “So you are awake again.” His voice sent shivers down her spine. It was deep but soothing, the voice that had banished the doctor.
“I doubt it. You’re dead.”
His brows disappeared into the brown curls draped negligently over his forehead. “When did that happen?”
“A long time ago.”
“Dr. McClarren feared you might be muddled, but your head will clear as your strength returns. You have me confused with one of my ancestors. I am Lord Thurston.”
“You are the sixth marquess,” she insisted in irritation.
Something that might have been pain flashed in his eyes. “Not yet, though my father, the fifth marquess, is in failing health. Try not to think too much, Em.”
“God, what a nightmare,” she murmured. But she could not seem to wake up, so she might as well go along with it. Both his words and his dress placed him in the Regency. She and her subconscious needed to have a good, long talk. “Was it Dr. McClarren who bled me to death?”
He smiled. “No, that was Dr. Harvey. You complained, so I dismissed him. It won’t happen again.”
“Filthy quack. Did Dr. McClarren give me a transfusion?” She doubted it, given her continued weakness.
“What?” His brown eyes held confusion.
“Never mind.” It had been a stupid question. Her subconscious was aware that Regency doctors knew nothing about transfusions. “Where am I?”
“Broadbanks Hall, Kent.”
That fit well enough, but she abruptly shivered. He had addressed her as Em. “Who am I?” she quavered.
He frowned. “Do you not recall?”
“Who am I?” she demanded louder.
His hand soothingly stroked hers. “Confusion. It was to be expected. You are Lady Emily Fairfield, sister of my closest friend Charles, Earl of Clifford. Your own home is in Yorkshire, but you were attending a house party at Broadbanks when you fell. Your mother is resting just now, having succumbed to megrims when you fainted during her visit. That was two hours ago.”
“Lady Emily Fairfield?” she asked, still in shock, though the dream at least made macabre sense now. Lady Emily’s accident had disrupted the betrothal ball of the sixth marquess. The girl had died four days later, according to one of Lady Travis’s letters. Her novelist’s mind was spinning historical facts into a story. “What is the date?”
“June nineteenth.”
“I mean the year,” she insisted.
“1812.”
“Thank God! This really is a dream. I’ll wake up in the hospital any minute.”
“Are you all right?” he asked anxiously. “Should I summon the doctor?”
He looked so frightened that she needed to comfort him. “I will be fine as long as I get proper care.” Another wave of weakness sent her thoughts in a new direction. Perhaps improving the lot of this dream girl would awaken her faster. It was worth a try anyway. “That quack nearly killed me. I must build up my blood if I am to survive.” She concentrated, diverted for a moment by thoughts of Willard. She had never expected to be grateful for his obsession with health food and natural supplements. What would be available in 1812? “I need iron,” she murmured. “From infusions of stinging nettles. And liver – at least half a pound a day, cooked gently in milk without grease. It won’t equal a transfusion, but it’s the best I can do.”
“The doctor won’t allow it,” he said with a grimace. “You can have nothing but gruel and barley water for at least a week.”
“Do you want me to die?” she demanded. “I must rebuild my blood before my brain withers. I need iron. And protein. I hate liver, but it is the most concentrated source of both in this accursed world. And I need fruit. Fresh fruit. Especially apricots. They are high in iron. So is parsley, watercress, and spinach – but don’t cook those. What I wouldn’t give for a bottle of multivitamins.”
“Emily?” The fear was back on his face.
She sighed. “You listened once and prevented that quack from bleeding me to death. Follow your instincts, my lord. I may not remember my name or my history, but I know how to restore my health.”
Drew tried to ignore her words, but her eyes pleaded too eloquently. She was terrified, yet she honestly believed that this strange diet would help. Did he dare agitate her further by refusing?
He couldn’t. He was responsible for her condition. The cruelty of his treatment had cut his conscience to ribbons in the days since her fall. He would do anything to save her, even if that meant flying in the face of convention, wisdom, and medical advice.
“Very well, Em. I’ll find whatever you need.”
“Thank God!” She relaxed, her pallor again frightening him.
“Let me get this straight.” He fetched a sheet of paper from the escritoire. “Infusion of stinging nettles. Fresh watercress and parsley. Apricots. Liver” —he grimaced, but forced himself to continue— “cooked without grease. Is that right?”
“Thank God you’re rational, my lord,” she murmured. “That will take care of the blood loss. For pain and fever, I need infusions of yarrow and black willow bark. And to fight infection, six fresh garlic cloves a day. Powdered purple coneflower root would be even better, but it’s an American plant that may not be available in a country apothecary shop.”