One Haunted Evening (Haunted Regency Series Book 1) Page 22

“Maybe you should teach someone so you aren’t running off there so often.”

  Brighid bent to pick up her basket full of herbs. “That is exactly what I intend to do, if someone will agree.” Since the Widow Wythe passed on, Brighid had seen to the care of the medicinal garden nestled behind the kitchens and herbarium. It wasn’t part of the vast, carefully manicured and well-tended gardens on the rest of the grounds, but a purposeful array of plants with no thought to color. They served to heal, not to be viewed for their beauty. That isn’t to say it wasn’t a pretty garden. She loved sitting in the middle of it, on the flat, dark, round stone. There were a few benches at the edge, but she rarely sat there. For the oddest reason, the stone always warmed her, even on the coolest days.

  “Just like your mother, off and about, nursing the sick when you should be tending your family,” her grandmother grumbled.

  Brighid pursed her lips together to keep from responding. Her mother had been a healer. With only one doctor in the area, sometimes she had been needed to treat the ill and act as a midwife until the physician could arrive. It was just a shame that the one person her mother had been unable to help was her own husband. Her mother had not been the same after she could not cure the illness that caused father’s death, and soon followed him to the grave. Brighid suspected it was more from a broken heart than anything else.

  Besides, her grandmother did not need tending. The woman may be getting on in years, but she was strong, healthy, active, and possessed all her faculties, even if she could be unpleasant at times. It was she who did the cooking and most of the cleaning in their house. Her brother, Cavan, was home only long enough to eat and sleep. If he wasn’t working the land and dairy, he was in Torrington with his friends.

  “Just don’t be long,” her grandmother insisted.

  Brighid paused at the door and stared down into her basket. She should take Wormwood. Had Mrs. Small requested this medicinal herb as well? She couldn’t recall, but knew she needed to take it anyway. Brighid no longer questioned these odd sensations or thoughts. Her mother termed them a gift and she listened to them every time.

  “A doctor will be here soon,” Thorn assured Blake.

  He didn’t need a doctor. There was nothing they could do. Well, there was the bark, but it didn’t grow in Cumberland, so he would have to suffer through.

  He pulled the blankets up to his chin. Why was he so cold? It was hot as Hades in here. At least he assumed it was hot, from the sweat on Thorn’s brow.

  Thorn poured a glass of water and pushed it into his hand. “This should help.”

  A moment later the housekeeper entered. “Right his way, Miss Alcott.” She stood back so a young woman of no more than twenty, carrying a dark bag of sorts, could enter the room. She had kind blue eyes and a round face with a bit of plumpness to her. Her hair was tucked under a handkerchief about her head, but a few sandy brown wisps escaped near her ears. At least she was a familiar face, even if Blake hadn’t seen her in several years. As soon as Thorn noticed the young woman he would forget Blake was even ill.

  “This is the doctor?” Thorn asked doubtfully.

  “No,” the young woman answered. “I am Miss Daphne Alcott. The doctor is my brother, but he’s unavailable at the moment.”

  “This is an emergency. We need him now!”

  Blake blinked, wondering at his friend’s urgent behavior.

  She held her ground and stared up at Thorn.

  Blake admired her immediately.

  “He is at a birthing. I left him a note to come here on his return.” She pushed past Thorn and came to the side of Blake’s bed.

  “You should return home and send for him,” Thorn ground out. “We need a real doctor. Not a miss playing at being one.”

  Blake shifted his eyes from the young woman to Thorn. It wasn’t like his friend to behave in such a rude manner toward a pretty woman. Usually the charm oozed from him, almost as though he couldn’t help himself. Could Thorn be that worried about him?

  Miss Alcott stiffened at Thorn’s words but then she smiled down at Blake and placed the back of her hand against his forehead. “You are overly warm.”

  He didn’t feel overly warm. He was freezing.

  “I’ll be fine,” Blake insisted, though it took more energy than he anticipated.

  She let out a sigh. “I wish I knew more about this malaria.”

  Blake tried to smile at her, to assure her he did not mind her lack of knowledge, but failed. At least she wanted to help.

  “I’ve brought Dover’s Powder. It is what my brother gives patients with fevers.” She withdrew a jar from the black bag. “And aches and pains.” She tilted her head and studied him. “Are you in pain?”

  “Yes,” Blake groaned and burrowed further beneath the covers.

  Miss Alcott brightened. “Then this should be just the thing.”

  Blake doubted it, but if it brought any relief, he would gladly take the whole of it.

  “Please bring me a glass of water so I can mix it with the powder,” she instructed Thorn.

  His friend retrieved the glass from the table beside the bed before striding across the room to refill it. When he returned, Miss Alcott tapped some powder into the glass and stirred it about. “We need to get you sitting up so you can drink.”

  Thorn was at his side without hesitation. Blake groaned as his body protested against the movement. Once he was elevated enough, Miss Alcott brought the glass to his lips. Blake braced himself for the bitter taste. If he didn’t have hope it would bring some relief, he would have refused. Instead, he forced himself to drink. When the contents were drained he was allowed to lie back against the pillows once again.

  “You should rest now. With any luck, my brother will be here soon.”

  “I’ll escort you out, Miss Alcott.”

  Blake let his eyes close and willed the pain away at the click of the door closing behind them. At least Thorn was finally being solicitous. What had gotten into his friend?

  A cool hand rested upon his brow. It brought relief to the fever. Had Miss Alcott returned? He hadn’t heard the door. Had he fallen asleep?

  Blake cracked his eyes open at the unfamiliar touch.

  Above him was a woman in a white nightshift. Where had she come from? She was young, barely out of the schoolroom, with blonde, flowing hair. She was so delicate and pale with a look of concern in her green eyes.

  “Who are you?”

  She smiled but said nothing.

  “Are you a maid?”

  Her smile grew wide, eyes crinkling as she shook her head.

  “A relation of Braden and Quent?”

  She frowned and studied him. Did she not know who his hosts were? Why was she here if she didn’t know them? Did she not understand the question?

  “Who are you?”

  She brought a finger to her lips as if to shush him.

  It didn’t really matter who she was. Her coolness brought relief to his fevered brow. She stroked his cheek with her other hand and Blake sighed.

  His eyes grew heavy again, but Blake didn’t want to return to sleep yet. He had a beautiful woman in his chamber, not that he was in any position to take advantage of the situation, but he feared if he slept she would be gone when he awoke.

  She moved her hand across his eyes and they closed against Blake’s will. A moment later, cool air touched his lips.

  Brighid stepped onto the drive leading to Marisdùn Castle. Today had not gone as planned. Daphne Alcott was not at home so she was unable to obtain the rum butter for which she had come. Then, she was nearly run over by the horse Dr. Alcott was riding when he tore out of the street leading from the mews. Further, there were rumors that the new owner had taken up residence at Marisdùn Castle. She saw no one about, nor were there carriages in the drive, so Brighid made her way to the back door that led to the kitchens.

  If the staff was busy due to the new arrivals she would simply leave the herbs and return later, though she dearly wished for a cup of te
a before beginning her trek back to her grandmother’s cottage. That woman grew more difficult with each day she aged and there were times Brighid wished to leave the house and live somewhere else. To do so would require marriage, but there was no one in either Tolbright or Ravenglass she wished to wed. Nor were any of the villages’ bachelors appearing on her doorstep. Too many of them thought as Blake Chetwey did. They feared she was a witch. She simply knew the proper uses of herbs and relied on intuition at times. It was nothing more. It couldn’t be more than that. Unfortunately, these talents would likely leave her a spinster, without a daughter to pass her knowledge onto.

  She lifted her hand and knocked on the door. It creaked open a moment later to reveal a kitchen maid who brightened upon seeing Brighid.

  “Oh, I am so glad you are here.” The maid stepped back allowing Brighid to enter. “We were just about to send for you.”

  Alarm shot through Brighid. “Is someone ill or injured?” She placed her basket on the table, mentally reviewing the plants that were already dried in the herbarium and what could be harvested from the garden.

  “A gentleman who arrived with the new owner has taken quite ill.”

  Brighid shrugged off her cape and laid it on the back of a chair. “Has Dr. Alcott been summoned?”

  “He is only a doctor,” Cook snorted. “You are better qualified to handle the illness.”

  She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Many of the older people in Ravenglass were superstitious and often called upon her instead of Dr. Alcott, who was perfectly capable of treating their ills, far better than she. “What are the gentleman’s symptoms?”

  “Shivering, but he also has a high fever. Miss Alcott was here earlier to fill in for her brother,” Cook added.

  Brighid bit her bottom lip. That explained why Daphne had not been at home. But, had her brother been on his way here when she had seen him? “Did Miss Alcott give him anything?”

  “Dover’s Powder.”

  Brighid nodded. It would help with the symptoms. “Do you know anything else about his illness? Is he coughing? Vomiting?”

  The young maid shrugged.

  “Someone said it is malaria,” Cook answered.

  Brighid stilled. She only knew of one person with that illness and because of that acquaintance, had researched the many options for treatment. “What is his name?”

  “Mr. Blake Chetwey,” Mrs. Small, the housekeeper, announced from the entrance to the kitchens.

  The breath left Brighid’s lungs. Blake was ill and she was going to take care of him whether he liked it or not. He could call her a witch with each breath, but she would not allow him to suffer further. She certainly wouldn’t allow him to die. Just because he survived the first attack after the insect bite didn’t mean he couldn’t still die with each subsequent episode, and that she would not allow. “Please boil water, Cook.”

  A shiver ran up her spine as she pulled the Wormwood from her basket. Nobody need know of her earlier premonition or they might begin to believe she really was a witch.

  She fingered the small cross at her neck. She was not a witch.

  Blake woke again, unsure how long he had been asleep. The young woman was no longer at his bedside. Instead a man, younger than himself, stood where she had once been. He appeared tall, at least from Blake’s view from the bed, with dark hair. Was that Dr. Alcott? He strained to see the man’s face more clearly. It was. Well, not the Dr. Alcott who had treated him as a boy. This was his son. Wasn’t Alcott a bit young to be a doctor?

  “Ah, I see you have awakened,” the man said.

  Blake struggled to sit, but his head and body protested at the movement. His stomach churned and sweat broke out across his brow. The worst part of this illness was the vomiting. He would take week-long, excruciating headaches over a day of vomiting.

  “I’m Dr. Alcott,” the young man introduced himself. “I am not sure if you recall meeting previously, Mr. Chetwey. It has been a number of years.”

  He glanced around the room. Had he imagined the pretty miss? “Where is the young woman?” His mouth and throat were dry. He licked his lips but there was no moisture to be had.

  “Woman?” the doctor questioned.

  “The one who was here earlier?”

  The doctor’s eyes brightened and he offered an easy smile. “My sister, I understand she gave you powder to help you rest.”

  Blake wanted to argue that he wasn’t speaking of the man’s sister, but perhaps the doctor didn’t know the servants in the castle.

  Dr. Alcott picked up Blake’s wrist as if checking his pulse. Clearly he had one or he wouldn’t be awake and speaking with the man.

  He let Blake’s hand rest against the blankets once again and then pulled a chair to the side of the bed and sat. “I understand you have malaria.”

  “I contracted it last year while in Barbados.”

  “How many reoccurrences have you suffered?”

  Blake closed his eyes to think. “Three,” He opened them again. “maybe four.”

  The doctor simply nodded and wrote something in a small notebook. “What are your usual symptoms?”

  “Headaches, body pain, chills, fever.”

  “Vomiting?”

  His stomach churned again. He had forgotten that particular part of the ailment for a moment. He clenched his jaw and nodded. Perhaps if he willed it away, his stomach would calm.

  “I’ve had little experience with malaria.”

  Little was better than none.

  Dr. Alcott colored. “Actually, I’ve no experience with the disease, only what bit I have read.”

  He probably didn’t have much experience shaving either so why should the doctor have enough training to treat a malaria patient, especially in Cumberland? But he was all they had, so perhaps Blake and the doctor could learn together. “I’ve had success with cinchona bark.” Not that it helped much since he had not replenished his supply following the last episode.

  The doctor grimaced and nodded at the same time. “That is what I have learned from my studies. However, I have none of the bark, nor does the apothecary in Ravenglass.”

  “I assumed as much.”

  “My books are limited on the topic but they offer other options used in the past.”

  Hope surged in Blake’s chest. Was there an alternate treatment he did not know about? With the way he felt at the moment, he would be willing to try any medication the doctor offered.

  “Though I hate to use it in my practice, sometimes I find it is necessary and the only treatment that will help.”

  That hope deflated since Dr. Alcott would only be guessing at what could treat his condition. “What do you suggest?” Blake finally asked.

  “Bloodletting,” Dr. Alcott answered grimly.

  Blake’s blood ran cold at the idea. There was no way in hell he was going to let this young man, doctor or not, cut open a vein in his arm. “I would rather we just let this episode run its course, then.”

  Dr. Alcott stiffened and frowned. “We cannot. There is no guarantee you will survive it.”

  “I lived through the others,” Blake reminded him.

  “That does not mean you will live through this one.” He leaned forward and pressed a thumb against Blake’s cheek and released it. He did the same to the other and then pulled down the lower lids to look into his eyes. “Have you been jaundiced before?”

  His eyebrows drew together. “Jaundiced?”

  “Has your skin turned yellow?” he clarified.

  Blake didn’t have an answer for that. It had not been mentioned to him before, but he had also been too ill to remember much from those episodes. Surely he would remember if his skin turned yellow.

  “That is my greatest concern at the moment.”

  If he were turning yellow, Blake would be concerned too. But bleeding into a bowl was not the answer. There had to be another option.

  “We need to stimulate the circulation and release the bad humors,” the doctor continued as he stoo
d and opened the black bag he had brought with him.

  Blake’s heartbeat increased. “Bloodletting is not the alternative.” More sweat dampened his brow and nightshirt.

  Dr. Alcott shook his head as he drew out a small box. “I’m afraid it is the only one I know of.”

  “Then return to your blasted books and read further.”

  The doctor sighed as he strolled across the room to pick up a bowl on the dresser. “It is not my first choice, but it is necessary.”

  If he had the strength, Blake would jump from the bed and run from the room. Instead, he tucked his arms beneath the blankets so Dr. Alcott could not get to them. It was a childish gesture but he was not going to willingly present his arm so that man could cut into it.

  Dr. Alcott eyed the blanket that hid Blake’s arms, but he didn’t say anything until he sat down again.

  “I’m a careful man, Mr. Chetwey. And I’ve done this many times without ever losing a patient.”

  Blake held still, his arms still tucked safely beneath the blanket.

  “Shall I call one of your friends? Perhaps they’ll help you see reason.”

  Perchance they would save him from the blade.

  On second thought, they would probably hold him down. Blake was unable to forget the concern Thorn had shown earlier. So much so he’d even failed to flirt with the lovely Miss Alcott. Blake didn’t want them in here. He wouldn’t be able to live down the humiliation that a grown man had to be restrained so that the doctor could treat him.

  Slowly, he pulled his arm from beneath the covers. People had been bled for decades and survived. He would too. And it just might work.

  “Very good.” Dr. Alcott took a seat, placed the bowl beneath Blake’s arm and withdrew the blade.

  Blake gritted his teeth. Hopefully, this would be over soon.

  Brighid balanced the tray on her hip while she opened the door to Chetwey’s chamber with her free hand. Her heart stopped at the sight of Dr. Alcott ready to cut into Blake’s arm and she nearly dropped the tray. “Are you blooming mad?”

  At the same moment, the blade flew out of Dr. Alcott’s hand and toward her. Brighid ducked as it thudded into the wall. Heart hammering in her chest, she stood frozen in her spot.