Of Noble Family (23 page)

“Of course.” He settled back in his chair. “Well, I am happy to report that you appear to be in good health, in spite of today's mischance. I would need to do an examination to be certain, but given your history, I should judge that you are well into your fifth month.”

“Thank you.” The fact that his verdict matched what Dr. Jones had told her made her feel a little more confident about Sir Ronald's judgement.

He stood and walked to the end of the bed. “Boy. Bring me that washbasin.” Sir Ronald opened his leather satchel, digging through the contents as Zeus complied with his order. “My concern, Mrs. Hamilton, is that you appear to be suffering from an inflammation of the brain. I would like to bleed you to restore some tranquillity to your system.”

“Thank you, but I would prefer not to be bled.”

He held up a lancet. “Have you been bled before?”

“I have not.”

“Then allow me to reassure you. After your time in the sun, bleeding is necessary to reduce the inflammation. Lessening the quantity of blood will diminish its stimulant quality, which will calm your nerves. It will also diminish the force with which your heart propels blood, and thus meet the same end by lessening the rapidity of the current. Lastly, it will have a direct sedative influence on the nervous centres, which is important in this circumstance, as that is the most reliable method to lessen the inflammation of the brain.”

“I am only tired because of our walk today.” Jane followed the blade as it caught the afternoon light. Her stomach tightened at the thought of being bled. She had never experienced the antique practice, but her mother's physician had been very fond of it. “The heat overcame me.”

“I am certain you are correct that much of your fatigue traces to the heat. However, the decision to walk in it displays all the symptoms of a fevered mind.” He took the basin from Zeus and set it beside the bed. “Take her shoulders, please.”

“No.” Jane slid further back on the bed.

In a practised movement, Sir Ronald knelt on Jane's thighs and grasped her right arm. “Now, boy.”

Zeus met Jane's eyes and hesitated, his hands lifted. A crease formed between his brows.

“Please, Zeus. Get my husband.” Whatever Vincent had thought he was asking for, it was not this. Jane twisted under the heavy pressure of Sir Ronald's knee. “Please!”

“Do as I say, boy.”

Still, Zeus hesitated, glancing to the door.

“Now, or I will have you whipped!” Sir Ronald barked, every inch of his military bearing becoming clear. “Remember who your master is.”

Bending his head, Zeus took Jane by the shoulders and held her down.

She screamed, as loud and hard as she could. Jane did not bother with Vincent's name, knowing that he would hear. Whatever his intent, it was not this. She screamed again.

Disregarding her cries, Sir Ronald held Jane's arm firm and put the blade to her arm. It stung only a little. For a moment, she thought it but a scratch, until the blood began to pour forth into the basin.

Outside, she could hear Vincent running down the hall. The latch on the door rattled, but it had been locked. With a thump, it bounced in the frame. Then again. “Jane!” And again. But the house was old and of stout construction. The lock gave not at all.

Jane still struggled against the hands that held her down, but without as much strength.

She could follow Vincent by his footsteps as he ran down the hall, through the blue parlour, out onto the veranda, and down the echoing wood to the balcony door of their apartment. He flung the door open with such force that a pane of glass shattered. She lifted her head to call him, but the room spun about her as if she had been working glamour.

The rage on Vincent's countenance had turned it into a snarling red mask. He dashed across the room, knocking over a chair in his haste.

Sir Ronald did not look around. “If you touch me, your wife will bleed to death.”

Vincent checked his flight against the bedpost. His teeth were bared like a mad dog. “Step away from her.”

“If you insist. Although, again, if I leave, she will bleed to death.” Sir Ronald watched the bowl and kept a firm grip on Jane's arm.

Jane did not hear Vincent's reply. It was lost in a multitude of grey spots and the buzzing in her ears.

 

Sixteen

Prescription and Proscription

Jane woke to the light of a single candle. She lay on the bed with her feet upon a pile of pillows. Blankets and quilts covered her, but in spite of them she felt cold. She slid her hand under the blankets to press against her stomach. It still belled outward, but she held her breath, waiting for the baby to move. Vincent's stocking feet were propped on the edge of the bed. She followed the length of his legs up to where he sat in a chair, reading a book. A book. After sending that man to bleed her, Vincent was reading a book. Her heart raced with anger, and the room spun about her.

Her body weighed on her, and even breathing seemed to take too much effort. She tried to moisten her lips but her tongue felt stuck to the roof of her mouth. The question she most wanted to know—if the baby was all right—was too frightening to begin with, so she swallowed her fear and held on to her anger for a moment longer. “Why?”

Vincent dropped the book, sitting up with a speed that threatened to upset his chair. “Jane!” He turned his head and spoke to the wall. “She is awake!”

Outside their room, someone ran down the hall towards the back of the house. Vincent sat on the edge of the bed, taking possession of her hand with such care that he seemed afraid he might break her.

“I am furious with you.” She tried to pull her hand away.

Vincent let her, but leaned closer. “I am so sorry. I should never have left you alone.”

“You should not have sent him at all.”

“I did not. He lied to you.” Vincent shook his head, eyes glimmering in the candlelight. Above the open collar of his shirt, his neck was flushed an angry red. “I asked Frank to send for Dr. Jones, then my father engaged me in a discussion, which seemed sincere. I can only apologise again, and again, for leaving you alone. But I did not send Sir Ronald to you.”

“You did not?”

“Unequivocally.”

“Oh.” Jane reached for his hand.

He raised her hand to his lips, kissed it, and held it there with his eyes closed. His fatigue and strain had pressed dark circles under his eyes. The mask he had worn cracked into deep furrows across his brow. Underneath that lay anguish and rage.

Light, rapid footsteps sounded in the hall, followed by a knock at the door.

“Enter.” Vincent stood, retaining Jane's hand.

The door opened and Dr. Jones entered, wrapped in a white dressing gown. Her heavy dark hair hung down over her shoulders in a pair of braids. A young man in shirtsleeves followed her.

“How is she?”

“She is alert, this time.”

“Good. Will you light more candles, Zeus?”

“Yes, ma'am.” Without his livery on, she had not immediately recognised him.

The memory of being held down returned. The weight on her legs. His firm grip on her shoulders. Her heart beat wildly, and Jane could barely draw breath. Spots of grey swam over her vision as though she were working glamour. Jane pressed back in the bed with a low moan.

Zeus lit the candle near her, but paused after lighting the one on the far side of the bed. “Should I go out, sir?”

“Yes … I think you had better.” Vincent squeezed Jane's hand before releasing it to walk around the bed. He took the taper from Zeus. “I will finish the candles.”

At the door, the young man paused. “I am so very sorry, madam. I did not think it would be that bad. Sir Ronald, he bleeds Lord Verbury nearly every visit.”

The doctor snorted. “There is a good deal of difference between bleeding a man who is sitting up and a reclining woman who is with child.”

The door shut behind Zeus and Jane slowly relaxed. Sir Ronald had threatened to beat Zeus. Jane was aware of that fact and knew that the young man had little choice, but she could not forget the strength of his grip so readily.

As Vincent lit candles around the room, Dr. Jones leaned over Jane and felt the pulse at her wrist. She frowned, shaking her head. “Mm. How is your hand, by the way?”

Vincent flexed his right hand, the knuckles of which were swollen and bruised. “Better, thank you.”

Jane frowned. “What happened?”

“I … I hit the wall.” He nodded to a place by the door where the plaster was cracked.

The doctor said, “I wish you had followed your original impulse.”

“My original impulse was murder.”

With a chill, Jane understood that “murder” was not a figure of speech.

“As I said…” The doctor reached for a little pot sitting on a small copper brazier and poured some of the steaming liquid into a mug. “Mrs. Hamilton, I have some beef tea. I want you to drink as much of this as you can.”

“Delightful.”

“It is indeed.” She slipped a strong arm around Jane's shoulders and helped her sit up a little.

Even that slight motion made Jane's head swim and the room turn circles around her. She stared at the bedpost and breathed slowly, waiting for the dizziness to pass. It did not. Neither did it grow worse, so Jane did her best to pay it no mind. She raised her hand to the mug but was still grateful for the doctor's help. She had not had a beef tea since she was living with her parents. The warm, salty drink restored some of the moisture in her mouth.

She finished the mug, and the doctor eased her back to the bed. “Good. We shall try you with some liver and greens next.” She set the mug on the side table and turned the counterpane back. “I just want a quick look at the baby. This will not take a moment.”

Vincent hovered at the foot of the bed, arms crossed over his chest. He bit his lip, shifting from one foot to the other. Jane stretched out her right arm to the far side of the bed, beckoning him, for his comfort as much as hers. He moved to sit on the edge and laced his fingers through hers. His gaze darted between her face and the doctor's activities.

He cleared his throat. “Have you attended many births?”

“Mm … close to forty this past year. Roll on your left side for me, Mrs. Hamilton.”

Jane complied, trying to recollect how many she had read about in the estate records. It had not seemed like half so many. “Were those all live births?”

The doctor's hands paused on her stomach. “Some are at other estates or among the free coloured population, of course.” She drew the quilts back over Jane with a smile. “Everything seems in order. Now, I want you to keep your feet up and drink plenty of the beef tea. I shall be just down the hall tonight if you need anything.”

“You are staying here?”

“At your husband's request.”

“What about Amey? And your other patients, and—”

“It keeps me closer at hand, should Amey begin her labour. My assistant knows where to send for me should I be needed. He is used to me moving from time to time.” She brushed the hair back from Jane's forehead and laid her warm palm against it again. “I shall see you in the morning. Mr. Hamilton? A word, please.”

Jane clutched his hand. “Not in private.”

“Muse—”

“I have nothing very alarming to report, but wanted you to rest.” Still, the doctor addressed her comments to Vincent rather than Jane. “She is not to be moved until she regains some strength. Even then … Mr. Frank told me that you had intended to take ship, and I must advise against that. A week in bed. Then she might move about the house, but no agitation. I cannot stress this enough. No agitation or exertion. Another two weeks should see her fit enough to venture out for gentle exercise, but I should still be cautious about travelling far for a month or more. I will stay here tonight and tomorrow, after which she should be out of immediate danger. Have you any questions?”

“Is there anything I should be doing to help?”

The doctor looked from him to Jane and gave a little smile. “In the ordinary course of things, I often advise the husband to sleep elsewhere so that my patient's rest is not disturbed. You, I think, should stay with your wife as much as you can. Am I correct, Mrs. Hamilton?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“Very good.” She gave a brisk nod and blew out the closest candle. “I shall see you in the morning.” As quick as that, she was across the room and out the door.

Vincent let out an unsteady breath. “Well, Muse. Shall I blow out the rest of the candles so you can sleep?”

“I think I shall sleep regardless of the light in the room.” Jane had never been so tired. “What were you reading before?”

“I have no idea. It was something about plantation management, but I think I read the same paragraph all evening.” The slight compression of his lips as he bent his head spoke volumes. Vincent ran his thumb over the ends of her fingers. “It is very dull. Shall I read you to sleep?”

“Would you … would you work some glamour?”

His brows rose in surprise.

“Not much. I am certain you are tired as well. I only want…” She wanted a change in the room so that it looked different from where she had been held down and bled. But a full glamural was too much work for a night. “I like to watch you work.”

“Of course.” Yet, he paused, gazing at her. The candlelight played around the planes of his face and smoothed them into an expression of earnest concern. Her breath stopped at the unexpected openness. Without the sharp line of a collar guarding his jaw, he always seemed younger somehow. “Jane … I do not say this often enough: I love you. Very much.”

Even without stays, Jane could barely draw breath. She offered him a smile that threatened to dissolve into tears. “I love you as well. Rogue.”

“Muse.” Vincent leaned down and kissed her cheek, dark circles under his eyes.