The Companion (28 page)

Ian leaped up and paced the room when at last he was alone, trying to calm his mind.

When finally the young secretary called him in, he found himself bowing to an older man with an open countenance, his grizzled hair worn long about a bald pate.

“Thank you for seeing me so late in the day,” Ian began.

The doctor was dressed conservatively, his coat finely tailored but claret-colored, a shade from another age in these days of black and dark blue coats. The room was lined from floor to ceiling with bookshelves, bulging with leather volumes, and to one side a long table was covered with glass tubes and flasks that emitted strange odors. Ian recognized a microscope fitted with several lenses. He had seen one at Cambridge. Near the long windows that gave on to the
street, framed by burgundy velvet draperies, sat a huge desk. It was covered with a green blotter on which sat a book with blank pages, a pen, and an inkwell. The doctor motioned Ian to take a seat in the leather wing chair, while Blundell sat at his desk. His first cursory glance at his newest patient had turned into a rapt examination.

“It is not often that I see so fine a male specimen walk through my doors, Mr. Rufford.” The doctor smiled. “You fairly glow with health. Pray, what can one of my specialty do for you?”

Ian cleared his throat. “I believe I have acquired an abnormality in my blood, sir, one for which I only hope you can prescribe a treatment.”

Blundell smiled indulgently. “Now, now, young man, it is for me to make the diagnosis. What makes you think it is a disease of the blood?”

Ian was prepared for this. “I acquired it through blood from one similarly afflicted.”

The doctor raised his eyebrows and nodded. He put on a pair of spectacles, picked up his quill, dipped it in the standish, and left it poised over the blank book. “Symptoms? Be detailed.”

Ian swallowed once. “Extreme sensitivity to light, which is why I asked to see you in the evening. I cannot bear the sunlight.”

The pen scratched. “Eyes or skin affected?”

“Both. My skin burns within moments, though it does not keep the color. I must wear blue or green spectacles of the darkest hue even to look through windows in daylight.”

The pen scratched over the page. “Other symptoms?” Blundell peered over his spectacles.

Here it was. This was Ian’s one chance and his biggest risk, well, almost his biggest risk. He removed a penknife from his coat pocket and pried open the blade. Then, pulling back his cuff, he slit the palm of his hand from the base of his thumb, across the pad of muscle, to his wrist in a clear, deep line that immediately welled blood.

“Mr. Rufford!” Blundell protested.

Ian held up the palm so the doctor could see it clearly. He felt the tingling along his veins that always felt so wonderful, the pricking pain in the wound as it stopped leaking blood. He knew what Blundell was seeing. The doctor’s eyes went round.

When Ian thought enough time had elapsed he checked his palm: a red line only, then a white line of scar, then nothing—no evidence the cut had ever been.

Blundell scrambled from behind the desk. “Let me see. Is this some kind of a trick?”

“I wish it was, Doctor.” He had the man’s interest. The doctor took his hand, fingered his virgin palm. “Do you want to see it again, perhaps make the incision yourself? Feel free to use an instrument of your choosing.”

The doctor peered up at him. “I shall. Take off your coat and roll up your sleeve.”

The result was the same with the scalpel Blundell used, of course. As a doctor, he had no scruples about slicing flesh, and he cut a vigorous wound deep into the muscle on the inside of Ian’s forearm. When the cut came together and left no trace, Blundell touched the skin in wonder. Then he turned his attention to Ian’s wrist. “It seems you do scar,” he observed.

“Before the infection,” Ian said shortly.

“If we could harness this ability . . .” Blundell turned to his desk and pulled out several lancets, then scurried over to the glassware for some vials. “How were you infected? A wound?”

“A drop of blood on my lips which I touched with my tongue.”

“Then I must have a sample of saliva as well.” The doctor produced some tubing, fitted it to his lancets. The end of the tube he put into his vial. “But first the blood.”

Ian rolled up his sleeve farther, baring the vein in the crook of his elbow, which he knew from experience would prove fruitful for lancing.

“What are these marks?” Blundell asked, peering at the twin scars left by Asharti’s teeth directly over the vein.

Ian could not tell him about Asharti. “Old wounds.”

Blundell glanced up at him. “Where were you when you were infected?”

“The desert of North Africa, northeast of Marrakech. I’m a little hazy about just where.”

“This is, of course, an entirely new disease. But it might prove a valuable discovery. If we could increase the healing powers of our soldiers or sailors . . . the possibilities . . .” He pressed the lancet into the vein where Asharti had sipped so many times. “I will take sixteen or twenty ounces—a vigorous bleeding, no more.” Blood flowed out the tube and into the glass vial. Blundell filled perhaps five of them. Then he asked Ian to expectorate into another vial.

“Do you have hope for a cure?” Ian asked. “I should like to be rid of this.”

“How can I know before I know what happened to you?”

“A doctor in Tripoli spoke of humors of the blood, perhaps treating it with hellebore or a bark of some kind.” That was before he knew all the symptoms and recommended a madhouse.

Blundell barked a short laugh. “Those are old ways. The answers lie in your blood.”

“When might you have those answers?” Ian pressed as he rolled down his sleeve.

“Well, you have prevented me from sleeping tonight,” Blundell said, excitement in his voice. He stoppered the little vials. “Several days, I should imagine. Call again Thursday.”

Ian masked his disappointment. “Thursday it is.” He strode to the door.

“Mr. Rufford . . .”

Ian turned to see the doctor peering over his glasses again. “Yes?”

“Is there anything else you would like to tell me about your condition?”

Ian hesitated. “No,” he said finally and with what he hoped was firmness. “Nothing. I shall call at twilight on Thursday.”

Beth came out of Drummond’s into the late afternoon and stared around at the people passing in Cockspur Street without seeing them. The world succumbed to twilight. The gray permeating the city seemed to depress her breathing.

Gone. Her portion was gone, and with it all hope of independence.

Mr. Stevenson had been solicitous, but he had nevertheless been unable to meet her eyes as he told her that her father had closed out her account with a draft drawn to a bank in Cairo. He had not needed to say more. Her father had used her future security to finance his last expedition. And to think she had felt guilty about not offering it to him!

“Oh, Papa,” she breathed. She could not be angry with him. It was so like him to be certain his next discovery would make all right and more. He had not done it to wound her. Indeed, as she thought about it, he could have done nothing else. It was his nature to be optimistic. And the search for treasures of the past was in his blood.

A man brushed by her, breaking her trance. She took a breath and looked around. A light rain began to fall. Her thoughts careened through the consequences of her discovery. No independent competence for her. She pushed through the shoppers on Regent Street and dreaded telling her aunt she was now an officially indigent relative. She could not trespass on her aunt’s goodwill, however long that lasted. Perhaps not long.

She must look about her for a situation, if she wanted to avoid selling herself under her aunt’s aegis to some elderly widower who could expect no better. But what could she do? Governess? Hardly. She spoke French well, but her Latin had the Continental accent rather than the strange English one and she had no Italian. No one wanted Arabic or ancient languages. She could draw. Had she not drawn figures of all the temples and tombs that came in their way? But what of needlework and singing and deportment? She had no skill at being a young lady, and that was what was truly valued in a
governess these days. She was not fashionable enough to be a dresser or a milliner. Would anyone think that provisioning a caravan prepared one for a post as housekeeper? She might serve as a translator, or perhaps a tutor at Oxford or Cambridge. But would anyone there hire a woman? She bit her lip. Unlikely. The only thing she could be was a servant who specialized in drudgery. She knew how to work hard.

The prospect was hardly calculated to delight her. Her thoughts were dark as she turned off Piccadilly into Curzon Street. She went directly to her room to be sure of avoiding her aunt. But she could not do so forever. That evening before going out, her aunt looked in on her.

Lady Rangle was pulling on long white gloves to go with the gossamer primrose gown she wore. “I am promised to Lady Hildebrand tonight, my dear, but we shall go to the Countess Lieven’s ball on Wednesday if we can procure anything decent for you to wear. I shall alert all my acquaintance tonight that I have a young person staying with me.” She gave a self-satisfied, if languid, smile. “I trust you shall not find yourself wanting for occupation.”

“You are too kind, Aunt.”

Lady Rangle peered at her. “What is the matter, child?”

Beth looked up at her and hated the fact that tears welled in her eyes.

Lady Rangle heaved a sigh. “So, you had bad news from Drummond’s, did you? I am not surprised. You might have known my reprehensible brother would have spent your portion.”

Beth drew herself up. “His explorations were more important than any portion.”

“The whole five thousand?”

Beth nodded dumbly.

“Well, then we shall have to get to work, won’t we?” She suppressed the energy that had welled in her voice. “Lord, I am tired already.” Then, looking at Beth kindly, she said, “Never fear, child. We shall bring you safely into the matrimonial harbor, even with no portion.”

Beth did not say she did not want to be brought safely
into any harbor that did not include love. She did not speak of her half-formed plans to find a position. She merely nodded as her aunt glided out of the door, wafting the scent of lavender and trailing a fringed shawl.

The prospect of being dragged to a series of social engagements so her aunt might force her into a world to which she could never belong daunted her. And yet . . . might she not encounter someone with a country house far away from London who needed a servant? It was not impossible. By day she could put her name at placement agencies; by night she could seek out information that gave her advance notice of a position. At the least she might find someone who could recommend her.

She must keep her activity secret from her aunt at all costs. Imagine Lady Rangle’s embarrassment if her niece was known to be a servant! Nor would she be happy if, in the unlikely event of a marriage offer, Beth refused.

How strange. She had been willing to marry Monsieur L’Bareaux. He was older, and she did not love him. His proclivities would preclude the physical act of love. What was so different now? Perhaps Monsieur L’ Bareaux had something she valued to trade for marriage—an ability to stay in North Africa and look for Kivala. But it was more than that. What had changed in her that she would settle only for love?

She shook herself. Such thoughts were fruitless. When she had found a suitable position she would simply disappear and spare everyone the burden of her presence.

She closed the curtains around her bed that night feeling absolutely alone. Her aunt would soon grow impatient with an indigent relative who refused to help herself in the only way Lady Rangle could approve. In some ways, her father had abandoned her twice, once in death and once by spending her small portion, however well intentioned. Her thoughts turned to Mr. Rufford, and she wondered where he was this night, whether he had reconciled himself to feeding, whether his experiences in the desert had so devastated him
as to make him sink into despair or depravity. His resolution to find some normal life and fight what he considered evil in himself she had found touching, even admirable. But he, too, had abandoned her. Not that she deserved more. She was an acquaintance of only a few weeks and one who knew enough of his secrets to be an uncomfortable companion. Yet in her mind’s eye she saw expressive blue eyes, puckered lips, the shoulders . . . She remembered the hint of his smile when they were playing chess and the pain in his countenance when he grew afraid of what he was.

It was she who should be afraid. But she wasn’t. Why was that? She hardly liked to think. No, she must not dwell on Mr. Rufford. She must not think about her father, either. They were gone. She must not even think too closely about her aunt, who would soon be lost to her as well.

But sleep would not come, and she could think of nothing else.

Beth sat holding a delicate teacup filled with punch and watched as couples twirled around the room. Slender Chippendale chairs lined a row of potted orange trees designed to screen off several corners of the giant room in Lord Winterly’s town house in Grosvenor Square into smaller areas for taking refreshments. Lady Rangle sat to her immediate left, speculating with relish to the Countess Lieven about how long the old King could live and whether Prinny’s debts would once again be paid by the new parliament. Beth could not be said to be enjoying herself, any more than she had enjoyed the endless series of calls all week, as her aunt introduced her to the women who could ensure her a place in society she would never claim.