A Not-So-Distant Love, page 5
Alec shifted his jaw as he thought how best to explain. “It’s a broad term referring to the period of adjustment people often go through when they first arrive in America.”
“So the sick woman with a burning fever in the room behind me is merely going through a ‘period of adjustment’?” Emotion coated Lady Rowand’s words, her voice unsteady. She looked worn out, those arresting gray eyes ringed with shadows.
How he wished the woman would take herself off to bed and allow him to do what he’d been trained to do. To his credit, he answered her calmly. “Everything here is different—our diet, our climate, our diseases. So yes, it is likely that Harriet, sick as she is, is adjusting to these many changes. The seasoning was more prevalent when the colonials first came over, but many still suffer, especially the very young and very old.”
He looked at Martin, then back at Mr. Stewart and Lady Rowand. “I’ll be blunt with you. Fatigue is a newcomer’s enemy. An evening of rest instead of an extravagant welcoming reception would have been wise.”
Martin sighed. “If I’d known, I’d not have—”
“You could not have known,” Alec interrupted, shaking his head. “Let me examine her, see what I can discover. I’ll do what I can to bring down her fever. In the meantime, a doctor’s word of warning for the two of you.” He faced Mr. Stewart and Lady Rowand directly, trying to ignore the guilt that had made itself at home in the center of his chest. “Having recently arrived, you are at risk as well. It is imperative you take precautions. You need plenty of sleep, beginning right now. Make sure you are also taking regular meals and getting some fresh air each day. You’re both young enough you’ll likely avoid the worst of it, but ’tis far better to take precautions than deal with unnecessary repercussions.”
“I’ll see that your orders are followed, Alec.” Martin’s voice was firm. “This is not what we had in mind as a welcome. All further social engagements will be put off for the foreseeable future.”
Alec turned to Martin, waiting to be escorted to his patient. But it was Lady Rowand who spoke, gesturing toward the door behind her. “She’s in my room. When she came up to help me undress, she was unsteady on her feet. I insisted she lie down on my bed.”
Try as he might, Alec couldn’t imagine Lady Rowand playing nurse, tucking a servant into her own bed. He took a step toward the door and saw that Lady Rowand intended to follow him. “I assume you’ve another room where Lady Rowand can get some rest?” he asked Martin. He had no intention of performing his examination with her peering over his shoulder.
“Of course, of course,” Martin assured him. “There are a few empty rooms farther down the corridor.”
“I’d like to be present while Dr. Galloway examines her,” she protested.
The muscles in Alec’s shoulders tightened. “I prefer to be alone and uninterrupted while I do examinations.”
Martin took Lady Rowand’s elbow. “I promise you Harriet is in good hands with Dr. Galloway. As far as doctors go, he is the very best.”
She laid a hand on her throat, looking unconvinced. “She needs me. I could—”
“You heard what Alec said about you needing your rest, my dear.” Martin wielded his usual charm, gently reassuring her. “I cannot have another woman’s ill health on my conscience. When you wake, you’ll be the first to be apprised of any news.”
“Very well,” she conceded, her mouth pulling into a frown.
“Thank you for seeing to her, Alec,” Martin said.
“Yes, thank you,” Lady Rowand parroted as she turned to go, the hint of irony in her tone so subtle he doubted either of the other two detected it.
Martin guided her farther down the corridor. “Is there anything at all you require, my dear?”
Her murmured response was indecipherable.
Alec felt a decided relief once she was gone. Whether it was more because of the guilt she provoked in him or the brash challenge issued in every word she spoke, he wasn’t sure.
“Thank you, again, Doctor,” Mr. Stewart said. “And I hope ye’ll excuse my cousin for her pointedness. Harriet has been at Charlotte’s side since the day she was born. She’s merely concerned.”
“I understand,” he said, though he didn’t. The thought of Lady Rowand having a care for someone usually thought of as so beneath her station disoriented Alec, like taking a sip of what one expected to be watered-down ale and getting the burn of whiskey. “And now, if you’ll excuse me.”
Mr. Stewart pushed his glasses up his nose again. “Of course. Good night, Doctor. Or good morning, I suppose,” he said, a trace of humor in his voice.
Alec let himself into the room. As it was mid-August, there was no fire in the hearth, though several candles burned, keeping vigil beside the sick woman’s bed.
Evidence of Lady Rowand’s hasty arrival and subsequent public exhibition was everywhere. The room was much as he’d found the woman herself this morning—in a state of dishabille. Several open trunks, half unpacked, were pushed up against the far wall. A fan, hairpins, and the jeweled necklace she’d worn last night were scattered across the dressing table.
The room itself was all woman, from the lavender counterpane to the lace-trimmed curtains to the soft floral scent that lingered in the air. He’d been in hundreds of rooms before and attended many female patients, but never before could Alec remember feeling so out of place. He set down his black bag on a chair that had been positioned by the bed.
The figure beneath the coverlet was stout, her wrinkled face lined in discomfort. He put a hand to her forehead. Certainly feverish. Face flushed, she turned away from him in agitation. There was something about the dour pull of her lips that made him think if she awoke, she’d be a cantankerous patient. He reached for her wrist, settling his fingers there, and when she didn’t pull away, he took out his pocket watch and checked her pulse.
He looked up as the doorknob turned, and a chambermaid slipped into the room. “Mr. Magann says I’m to fetch anything you need.”
“Let’s start with an inkwell, a pen, and some paper, if you please.”
After a brief nod she was gone, leaving Alec to his examination. He gently pressed his thumb and forefinger to the lymph nodes just underneath the woman’s jaw. The swelling was slight. Opening his bag to remove his stethoscope, he placed one end of the wooden tube against Harriet’s chest, putting his ear to the other. He listened to her breathing, then her heart. A rapid heart rate, as he’d suspected.
At this time of year, the signs pointed to malaria, one of the diseases newcomers often fell prey to during the seasoning. Hopefully, her bout was brief, but at her age, it was difficult to speculate what course the disease might take.
Before he could return the stethoscope to his bag, the maid returned with the supplies he’d requested, leaving the door slightly ajar. “Here you are, Dr. Galloway.”
He nodded his thanks and jotted down some instructions before turning to the maid. “First, someone will need to be sent to Vera Coslett for some boneset. I’ve written out what I need here, along with instructions for the cook on how long to steep it into tea. I’ll also need several bottles of tonic water from the apothecary.” He reached into his bag and found the vial he needed. “This is quinine powder. I’ve given exact instructions on how much to add to the tonic water. I’d like Harriet to have both the tea and the quinine when she wakes. Can I entrust you with all of this?”
She nodded. “We have a couple o’ lads from the stable who can fetch what you need very quickly. I’ll see that your every instruction is followed.”
“Very good. Thank you . . .” He paused, waiting for her to supply a name.
“Violet,” she said with a brief smile. “When should I tell Mr. Magann you’ll return?”
“I’ve a few other appointments this morning, but I should return around noon. In the meantime, is there someone who can stay with Harriet to be certain her condition doesn’t change?”
“I will.”
Alec startled at the sound of Lady Rowand’s voice. She stepped from the shadows near the wardrobe, a determined glint in her eye daring him to try to remove her.
* * *
Charlotte took immense satisfaction in the way Dr. Galloway’s head snapped up, his forehead lined in irritation. Good. The man acted as if he were a ship captain and all the world his crew. But she had no intention of following his commands. If that riled him, all the better.
Though she’d allowed Mr. Magann to lead her to a new bedchamber, she’d never had any intention of leaving Harriet in Dr. Galloway’s hands. Charlotte had been on the receiving end of Harriet’s care too many times to count, and now she would show her gratitude by returning the favor in kind. She’d waited until the corridor had cleared and snuck in when the maid had left to fetch the supplies the doctor required.
Even with the haze of fatigue washing over her, Charlotte had forced herself to stay awake, watching Dr. Galloway work while she stood in the shadows. Grudgingly, she’d been forced to admit that for a man with no social manners at all, his bedside manner was surprisingly good.
Now they stood on opposite sides of the room, locked in a staring contest. Charlotte raised her chin a little, hoping he’d be the first to look away. To her chagrin, he held her gaze from across the room, unflinching as he extended his hand toward the maid, holding out the instructions he’d written. “That will suffice for now, Violet.”
“Very good, Doctor.” The maid took the folded paper and hurried out of the room, but not before flinging a curious glance in Charlotte’s direction.
The doctor turned his back on Charlotte, buckling his black bag with brutal efficiency. “I thought I’d made myself clear, Lady Rowand. You need rest. Badly. There are plenty of people in this household who can oversee Harriet’s care.”
Charlotte’s hackles rose, her worry for Harriet raising her voice. “We arrived only yesterday! They’re all strangers to her.”
Dr. Galloway turned back around, bag in hand, and crossed the room in several forceful strides. He halted inches from Charlotte, looming over her with his dratted height and the broad shoulders she’d admired just last night. “And what good are you to her if you fall prey to the same illness?” he demanded in a harsh whisper.
Charlotte’s breath stuttered. All that intimidating brawn and formidable bulk, covered only by his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, was now a little too close for comfort. But if he thought to get his way using intimidation tactics, he’d best think again.
She leaned forward. “I’m sorry to shock you, Doctor, but I have no intention of letting you browbeat me into leaving Harriet’s side—an instinct you might understand if you cared for anyone even half as much as I care for her.”
Something flashed in his expression, gone too quickly for her to decipher.
She drew in a breath, then expelled it, fully intending to needle him until he acquiesced. “I am tired, yes. And I can see why a man of your age might exhibit some concern. But I am young and resilient, and a little fatigue will not be the end of me.”
Those hazel eyes pierced hers, unrelenting. She stared back at him with the same steel he shot through her with his unnerving glare, taking note of the fine lines around his eyes. Had they once been smile lines? If so, all traces of that man had evidently long since disappeared. Faint brackets around his mouth showed through his beard, and a heavy pulse beat in his neck, mirroring the thunder of her own.
“I hope, Lady Rowand,” the doctor said finally, “never to have you as a patient.”
“Not more, I assure you, than I hope never to be one.” She folded her arms over her chest, her anger fading, and with it an awareness of the impropriety of the moment. Their proximity. A closed door. Only a sick, sleeping woman as chaperone. This certainly hadn’t been what Harriet had envisioned when she’d agreed to the role. “I am going to stay with her, so I’d be obliged if you’d tell me what to do and what may be of concern.”
Dr. Galloway raked a hand through his hair, still slightly damp from the rain, and stepped back, leaning against the wardrobe as if exhaustion were finally getting the better of him. “Of most concern is her fever. Cool cloths on her head and neck will help until she can drink the boneset tea. I don’t believe it is likely, but if her fever seems to worsen, send for me immediately. Violet’s instructions include the appointments I have for today, so you’ll know where to find me.”
He paused, his gaze flicking over her face. “I’m inclined to believe, given the symptoms I’ve observed, that she’s beset with malaria. If you give her the quinine as I’ve prescribed, she should show vast improvement in the next two to three days. Perhaps even sooner.”
“Then, there’s no real danger?” she asked, anxiety punctuating her words.
He shook his head. “At her age there is always some concern. But I feel confident she’ll make a full recovery.”
Relief pulsed through Charlotte, making her generous enough to admit what she’d known from the moment she’d stepped into the room and found Alec Galloway examining Harriet. Despite the unforgivable way he’d slighted her, the man was an excellent doctor. He’d been thorough and methodical, his hands gentle as he’d examined Harriet. Charlotte would sooner try to summit the Cairngorms, however, than admit as much. His words from last night were still too fresh.
But where before there’d been only a dark cloud of animosity for Dr. Alec Galloway, now a small ray of gratitude shone through. “Thank you.”
His mouth was hard. “I’d be remiss, Lady Rowand, if I did not reiterate my concerns over your own fatigue.”
In an instant that small ray was blotted out. “Your concerns have been noted. And dismissed.” Charlotte had the sudden outlandish desire to rumple his perfectly tied cravat.
“Then, I bid you good morn,” he said curtly, with a stiff nod. He was at the door in two quick strides.
But she wasn’t finished. “One last question, if I may.”
He turned back, brows raised.
She changed tactics, loosing a half smile on him. “Last night, in your little history lesson, you mentioned a great deal of blood was shed so you colonists might be left in peace.” She lowered her lashes in a lazy blink, then met his gaze directly. “How much of your victory, do you think, could be attributed to the seasoning of British soldiers who’d not before set foot in America?”
Surprise stole over his face for a brief moment before his mouth melted into a frown.
“I see,” she said. And she didn’t bother to hide the smugness in her expression as she turned her back on him and hurried to Harriet’s side.
Chapter Six
Charlotte had tried to repent. Truly she had. She’d sat by Harriet’s bedside these past hours, saying halfhearted prayers, trying to feel even an ounce of remorse for her rudeness toward Dr. Galloway. To no avail.
She’d also tried to forgive him for the hurtful things he’d said about her. That, so far, had also proved unmanageable. Dr. Galloway’s snide judgments had touched a nerve. She’d believed herself long past her wounds from London, but she wasn’t.
Not quite.
She sighed, fiddling with the silk collar of her dressing gown. As it turned out, feelings of goodwill toward the doctor were impossible, no matter how taken she was by his hazel eyes or broad shoulders.
To be fair, she didn’t feel much goodwill toward anyone right now. Less than a day since their arrival in Pittsburgh and nothing had gone as planned, from her early retreat last night to Harriet’s illness to a verbal duel with Dr. Galloway. And besides all that, the throbbing in Charlotte’s head hadn’t abated. She probably needed headache powders, but pride had prevented her from asking the doctor for them. She’d walk to the apothecary herself before admitting his concern had been warranted.
She tried to push the doctor from her thoughts, instead turning her attention to Harriet. When Harriet had awoken a few hours earlier, she’d complained that the light hurt her eyes, so Charlotte had quickly drawn the heather-colored drapes, even though the silent room now held a funereal pall.
Not exactly how she’d imagined spending her first full day of this new adventure.
It was unnerving, seeing Harriet so still. For as far back as Charlotte could remember, Harriet had always been in a perpetual state of motion, her hands busy, her tongue sharp. Now, silent and unmoving, her wrinkles were deep grooves that betrayed her age.
Charlotte’s hands twisted in the folds of her dressing gown. Truth be told, it wasn’t so much this unfamiliar illness that alarmed her, but the realization that things that had always seemed so permanent—Harriet, her own parents—would not be around forever.
A desolate sort of ache had formed in her stomach during those dark days in London. She’d tried not to let her parents see it, not wanting to worry them, but loneliness had encroached. How could she put into words what it felt like to miss the possibility of what could be? Some future that felt as if it were slowly slipping away? A crystallizing fear that she might never find what her parents had with each other?
She was twenty-three now. Old enough to understand that the title that would one day be hers was more of a barrier than an enticement to potential husbands. What man wanted to marry a woman whose power and title eclipsed his own? Because Charlotte would one day be a duchess suo jure—in her own right—her future husband, at least in the eyes of the world, would be little more than an accessory on her arm.
Perhaps Father was right. Perhaps she had some idealized view of what love and a marriage should be. Perhaps her girlish sensibilities needed to give way to a more practical outlook. She glanced down at Harriet. She wouldn’t be around forever. And what if, as things around Charlotte changed, she didn’t have the one constant she’d always believed she would find?
She squared her shoulders and let out a breath. No wonder Iseabel detested change. It could make one quite maudlin.
