A Momentary Marriage(44)

“Yes, we did. So you remember.”

He nodded. “You were—did you say someone wanted to kill me? Was that a dream?”

“No. It wasn’t a dream.”

“But how . . . why . . .” He frowned, raising a hand to rub his forehead.

“Mercury. They placed some under your bed. And it was in your tonic. You were breathing it in with every treatment.”

“I can’t . . . I can’t think. Damn!” He pushed himself up. “I’m so bloody useless, Laura.” He took her arm. “You must be careful.”

“Don’t worry. I haven’t let on that I discovered the mercury; I said you moved in here because I spilled water on your bed. We’re safely away from the poison, and Demosthenes will stand guard at the door.” She took his hand between both of hers. “All you have to do is get better.”

“I’m not sure I can.”

“You can. You must.” She leaned in closer, staring into his eyes. “James, I need you. You have to get better and help me figure this out. I’m all alone here, and you can’t leave me.” One thing she had learned about James in the past few days was his overriding sense of responsibility.

He gazed at her for a long moment. “I won’t.”

“Good. Now take this medicine.” She mixed a measure of milk thistle with a tiny amount of water.

“What is it?”

“Bitter.”

“Of course.” There was a glimmer of his old self in his eyes.

“It’s milk thistle. My father used it with success.” Her father had always said that medicine worked better with belief.

He swallowed it without protest. It was harder work getting him to drink any of the cup of broth Owen had brought for him, but she managed that as well. Laura couldn’t bring herself to eat anything. Her stomach was too tied up in knots. Going into her dressing room, she changed clothes, then sat down before the mirror to put her hair into some rudimentary order.

By the time she was ready, Owen was waiting on a bench in the hall, Demosthenes in his usual place. The dog made his routine check on James before returning to his spot at the door. Laura leaned over James, checking a last time for fever.

“James, I’m going to see about more medicine. I’ll be gone for a bit, but Owen will be here with you. He’ll take care of you.” His eyes didn’t open; she couldn’t tell if he was asleep. Fear tugged at her stomach. What if his life slipped away while she was gone? “I’ll be back as soon as I can. And Dem is outside the door.” Impulsively she bent and pressed her lips to his forehead.

“Please sit with him, Owen,” she said as she pulled on her gloves. At his quick nod, she went on, “It’s best if he sleeps. You might want to close the door to, um, shut out any noise.” And discourage visitors.

It was a lovely spring day, but Laura was too wrapped in her worrisome thoughts to look at the view outside the carriage. It was much too early to be making a call, but that social solecism weighed little compared to seeking help from the wife of the man Laura had loved for much of her life.

Laura liked Abby. Indeed, when they had met by accident, unaware of who the other was, they had chatted like good friends. Abigail seemed a reasonable, fair person, but the heart didn’t always follow one’s head.

No matter how much Graeme loved his wife now, it did not change the fact that the first years of their marriage had been bitter—and his thwarted love for Laura was the reason he had turned away from his new bride. Any woman would find that hard to forgive.

So it was with some trepidation that Laura entered the front door of Lydcombe Hall. The Parr family’s imperturbable butler, Fletcher, gave no indication that he found such an early morning visit odd, merely bowed and said, “Miss Laura. Lady de Vere, I should say. We are most grieved at the news of Sir James’s illness. Lady Montclair—Lady Mirabelle, that is—is still abed, but I will tell her you are here.”

“No, it’s not Mirabelle I’ve come to see. It’s Abigail.” Laura hesitated. “If, that is, you think she would not mind.”

Something like a smile lurked in the butler’s eyes. “Indeed, Lady Abigail is, ah, quite at ease with informality.”

Laura followed him upstairs to the sunny sitting room overlooking the rose garden. Within moments, Abigail rushed into the room. She was still clad in her dressing gown, a dramatic blue satin robe reminiscent of a Japanese kimono, richly embroidered, her black hair hanging in a loose braid down her back. In her arms, she carried a small bundle.

It was impossible not to be struck anew by the other woman’s beauty. Tall and statuesque, with vivid green eyes and thick black hair, Abigail Parr was stunning. But now her face was creased with concern as she said, “Laura? What’s happened? Is James—”