Chapter 20
To marry a member of one’s household, even from its upper strata,
was considered an appalling social misdemeanor.
—MARK GIROUARD, LIFE IN THE ENGLISH COUNTRY HOUSE
Dr. Sutton arrived within the hour. With Mrs. Hinkley’s assistance, he irrigated the wound with soap and warm water, then with diluted muriatic acid. When he commended Edward for his quick thinking with the knife and brandy, Edward credited his gamekeeper for knowing what to do.
“Avery Croome did this?” Sutton raised his brows and his lower lip protruded, but whether impressed or merely surprised, Edward did not know.
Dr. Sutton also bathed and bandaged Olivia’s head wound, which he cited as the cause of her unconscious state—a bite, he said, even from a rabid dog, would not account for it.
“How long until we know if she has been infected?”
Sutton shrugged and pushed up his spectacles. “Symptoms may not appear for a week or more.”
“What should we look for?” Mrs. Hinkley asked.
“Pain and itching at the wound site, headache, insomnia, nausea, refusal to eat or drink, agitation, aggression . . .”
Edward shuddered. “And if symptoms appear?”
“Then there is nothing we can do for her but keep her from passing the disease to others. Once symptoms are in full force, victims usually perish within the week.”
A dull ache of dread pounded through Edward’s body. “How long will she remain unconscious?”
“Only God knows. Head wounds are mysterious indeed. I shall arrange for a chamber nurse, shall I?”
“And I shall share that duty, if you don’t mind,” Mrs. Hinkley offered. “Even a chamber nurse needs rest from time to time.”
Edward nodded his agreement and murmured dull thanks to them both.
Dr. Sutton continued his extensive irrigation of the wound, explaining that the best course was to do all in one’s power to prevent the dog’s saliva from making its way through the victim’s body.
For the disease had no cure.
Edward returned to the sickroom later that night to ask the hired nurse if she would like a respite. He was surprised to find the earl sitting beside Miss Keene, and felt a renewed pinch of grief to see his father sitting at another sickbed so soon after his mother’s death. The matronly chamber nurse sat off in the corner, working some embroidery by the light of a candle lamp.
“Any change?” Edward whispered, surveying Olivia’s form shrouded by bedclothes.
“She grows restless,” the older man answered softly.
As if hearing the words, Miss Keene’s forehead puckered and she turned her face away from them, then back once more.
Edward recalled the list of symptoms the doctor had described and felt fear prick his gut. “I would be restless too, lying about all day,” he said in mock confidence.
His father looked at him, then away. “No sign of nausea.
Or”—he attempted a grin—“insomnia. And Nurse Jones here has got her to swallow some water. Another good sign, is it not?”
“I hope so,” Edward answered.
As if sensing his son’s discomfort, Lord Brightwell asked Nurse Jones to give them a few moments alone, suggesting she take herself down to the kitchen for some tea.
“Don’t mind if I do, my lord.” She rose stiffly and left them.
After a few moments of silence, Edward confessed, “It was my fault she ran into the wood.”
The earl’s eyebrows rose, but he didn’t press Edward. “The important thing is that she get well.”
“Yes. I am afraid I have much to apologize for.”
“More than you know,” the earl said, his eyes growing tender as he looked at Olivia’s pale face.
“What do you mean?” Edward asked. His father’s warm tone and mysterious words brought leaden dread to his stomach. Certainly his father had no designs on the girl.
When their gazes met, the older man’s eyes were bright with unshed tears. “I think Olivia may be my daughter.”
“What?” Edward thundered.
“Shh . . .” the earl admonished, and both turned their eyes back to Miss Keene’s unconscious form.
“Olivia favours her mother a great deal,” his father whispered with reverence. “It is why I was so startled when first I saw her. Her looks, her intelligence and warmth—so very like Dorothea.”
“Who is Dorothea?” Edward demanded, a dark cloud building inside of him.
“She was governess to my half sisters, your aunts Margery and Phillipa.” The earl frowned suddenly. “Do sit down, my boy. My neck grows stiff.”
Edward complied, sitting in the last remaining chair, its hard wooden slats digging into his spine. Who had designed the torturous thing?
“Olivia’s hair is darker, but still the resemblance is striking.”
“And this Dorothea was . . . your mistress?”
The earl winced. “It was not as tawdry as all that. We fancied ourselves in love. I wanted to marry her, but as you might guess, my father would not hear of it.”
Lord Brightwell rose and went to stand near the window, looking out at the moon pouring its waxy light over the white world below. “My father urged me to marry your mother, the Estcourts being such a well-connected and wealthy family.” He sighed. “Of course none of us could have guessed that he would die before the year was out. In any case, I had barely agreed when the banns were read and the wedding set for three weeks hence. As soon as Dorothea heard, she resigned her post and left with no word of her destination. I never imagined she was with child, though perhaps I should have guessed. How irresponsible and selfish I was . . . how weak. I like to think I would have acted differently had I known. I did try to find her, but I own it was a halfhearted attempt at best. Even her family did not know where she was.”
“Olivia,” Edward whispered to himself, suddenly realizing the significance.
“Yes,” the earl whispered.
Edward scowled. “Is she pushing for this, or are you?”
“I am. She doesn’t want a shilling from me, if that is what you think.”
“I did not think that,” Edward muttered, though the thought had crossed his mind.
“I have not told Olivia outright what I suspect, though as intelligent as she is—and as subtle as I was—I believe she guessed. Being genteel, she is no doubt repulsed by the notion of being baseborn, as you can imagine.”
“Yes, I can well imagine,” Edward echoed wryly.
Lord Brightwell shot him a look. “You must know, Edward, Olivia is not convinced. My recollection of the timing and her age do not reconcile.”
Edward shrugged. “Easily changed. No doubt many illegitimate children celebrate their first birthday a few months later than fact.” Edward wondered for the first time what his real birth date might be.
The earl abruptly stood. “Dorothea would want to know. She would want to be here with her daughter. Did Olivia give you any direction beyond ‘near Cheltenham’?”
Edward shook his head.
“Nor me. I wonder why. . . .”
The next day, Edward was just returning from the stables after exercising his horse when the shrill summons startled him.
“Master Edward! Come quickly!” Mrs. Hinkley stood at the garden door, waving wildly to him, her voice panicked. “It is Olivia. She is thrashing about and . . . and talking!”
She held the door for him as he strode toward her, pulling off his riding gloves and hat as he came. “Send for the doctor, Mrs. Hinkley. I shall go up and see what I can do.”
“Yes, my lord,” she answered, clearly relieved to have him take charge of the situation.
Tossing his things on a bench in the corridor, Edward took the stairs three at a time. He hurried into the sickroom, shutting the door behind him. Olivia’s face was flushed, and she twisted about, the sheets and a long nightdress trapping her slender form. Her mouth twitched and her brows furrowed. Then she began muttering aloud, though her eyes remained closed.
“No! Be gone! Edward! Edward!”
His heart banged in his chest. He had never before heard her speak his Christian name. She was calling to him, no doubt reliving that horrible scene with the dogs.
Stepping to the bedside table, he wrung excess water from a cloth and then sat on the chair beside the bed. He held her face with one hand and with the other, gently touched the cool cloth to her cheeks and lips and brow. He murmured, “Shh . . . It is all right. I am here. The dogs are gone. You are safe now, Olivia. Perfectly safe.”
She quieted almost immediately. He smoothed the cloth down her straight nose, dabbed her scratched chin, and then softly soothed the hot skin of her neck. Eventually he returned the cloth to the basin, and took one of her small hands in his own. He stroked her delicate fingers and spoke to her softly. “You are going to be all right, Olivia,” he said, knowing his words were as much to reassure himself as her. He recalled the sound of her voice calling out his name. Not my lord, not Lord Bradley. Just Edward. He longed to hear her say it again, well and awake.
When Dr. Sutton came an hour later, he gave her chamomile and valerian to calm her and ordered she be helped to swallow more fluids. “It might just be a slight fever and not rabies, but it is too early to tell,” he said. “There is little else to be done but wait.”