“No! Oh, Abigail, no. I’m sorry; I didn’t think. I should have told Fletcher that James is . . . not worse. I didn’t come here about—well, I did, but—oh—” She raised her hands to her face and realized they were trembling. “I’m sorry. I’m not making sense.”
“Come, sit down. You must be terribly distressed. I’ll ring for tea. Or would you like coffee? The staff has given in to my American love for coffee.”
As she came closer, the bundle emitted a squeak and stirred, and Laura saw that the object in Abigail’s arms was a baby wrapped in a blanket. An arm emerged, knocking back the blanket to reveal the rest of her. “Oh! I didn’t realize. Is this—”
“Anna,” Abigail said, beaming, and turned, tilting her so that Laura could see the infant better.
“My goodness.” Laura peered down into the perfect features. All white and pink and dimpled, with a thick shock of black hair and huge blue eyes, the baby stared back up at Laura. “She’s beautiful.”
“Would you like to hold her?” Abby extended her toward Laura.
“Could I?” A smile lit Laura’s face. “Oh, yes, if you don’t mind.” Laura settled the baby carefully into the crook of one arm, brushing a finger across Anna’s petal-soft cheeks. “Such black hair . . . and those eyes. Graeme must be over the moon.”
Abigail chuckled. “He is already tightly wrapped around her little finger. I’m certain he’ll be the most doting father ever.”
“I can see why.” The girl took a firm hold on Laura’s dress, making cooing noises. Laura bent her head closer, breathing in the sweet scent of baby. “She looks like you.”
“Do you think so? Graeme says she does, but I can’t see it—except for the hair, of course, but Graeme and his mother have dark hair, too.”
“Yes, but . . . I can’t identify it, really, but there’s something of you in her little face.” Laura raised her head, smiling at the other woman, and received a warm smile in return. Perhaps talking to Abigail would not be as hard as she feared.
At that moment, the baby’s nurse bustled in to take Anna back to the nursery for a change, and Laura handed her over somewhat reluctantly. The butler, with his usual efficiency, had not waited for Abby to request refreshments, but swept in now with a tray of coffee, tea, and rolls.
Laura, unable to eat anything before she left, was suddenly starving. Abigail sipped a cup of coffee, waiting until Laura had consumed an air-light croissant before she spoke. “I’m glad to hear that James is not worse. But something must be amiss.”
“Yes. I’m very sorry to barge in like this so early, but I—” Laura drew a shaky breath. “I need help.”
“What can I do?” Abigail set down her coffee and leaned forward. “What do you need?”
“I think—I fear someone is trying to harm James.” Abby gaped at her, and Laura rushed on, suddenly fearing that Abby would not believe her. “I found mercury in James’s medicine.”
“Mercury?” Abby looked even more astonished. “Quicksilver?”
“Yes. Do you know anything about it?”
“My father owned part of a quicksilver mine in California. I think they used it to extract gold from the ore.”
“There have been doctors who prescribed it for some ailments. But not for a cough. I dropped a bottle of his tonic, and there was mercury in the liquid. That’s not all.” Her story poured out—the discovery of the pan beneath James’s bed, Laura’s fears, her father’s cases. “It’s very dangerous; one only has to breathe the vapors. It doesn’t even have to be heated.”
Laura finally wound down, the knot in her chest that had been her companion the past few hours loosening. Abby at first said nothing, still gazing at her in amazement.
“I know this must sound mad,” Laura told her. “But I promise I am perfectly sane. Someone deliberately set out to harm James.”
“No, I have no doubt about your sanity,” Abby assured her. “It’s just hard to take it all in.” She straightened. “The two of you should come here. No one could get to him here.”
“Thank you. You’re very kind. But I’m afraid to move him. He is . . .” Tears glistened in Laura’s eyes. “James is very ill. I put him in a different room, and Demosthenes guards the door.”
“That should discourage any attacker.” Abby smiled. “What can you do for him—will he recover?”
“I don’t know. Some of my father’s patients died, and others didn’t. My father used milk thistle, and he thought it helped speed recovery. That’s why I came to you. To ask you to purchase some for me. I have a little, but I need much more.”