Chapter 4
“Lady Randolph, you needn't be afraid,” John soothed. “I'm here to help you.”
The countess threw aside the bed linens and scrambled back to huddle against the carved headboard, driven by whatever images tormented her fevered brain. Her voice rose to a thin wail of hysteria.
“No! You want to hurt me. Why won't you leave me alone?”
He reached for her but she shrank away, curling into a tight ball of fear on the rumpled coverlet. His heart ached with pity as he watched her struggle to pull in a breath, as fragile as a pink rose wilting in the summer heat. Her chemise slipped from one shoulder to reveal smooth skin flushed with fever.
“Sarah,” she cried, bursting into tears. “Where are you? I'm frightened.”
Miss Boland rushed from the window, glaring at John as she gathered Lady Randolph into a protective hug.
“There, there, lovey, don't cry,” she crooned. “It's just the doctor, come to take care of you. You remember Dr. Blackmore, Miss Bathsheba. You met him at the Dellworthy dinner party.”
Not wanting to frighten the countess, John sat on the edge of the bed, keeping some distance between them. He struggled to ignore a foolish impulse to snatch her from Miss Boland and pull her securely into his arms.
“You wound me to the quick, Lady Randolph,” he said, adopting a conversational tone. “I was sure you would remember me. I must have made a poor impression for you to have forgotten me so quickly.” He smiled and kept his body relaxed, as if they were just having a friendly chatânot about to begin a pitched battle to save her life.
She stared at him from the safety of her servant's embrace. Her breathing slowed as a glimmer of comprehension brightened her dull gaze.
“Dr. Blackmore?”
He nodded, holding his tongue while she studied him.
“I thought I got rid of you,” she said in a sullen voice.
He laughed, relieved out of all proportion that she had regained some of her senses. “You certainly tried, but I'm like mud on an old boot. I tend to stick.”
He rose and moved to the headboard. She frowned, obviously suspicious, but didn't retreat.
“My lady, I need to listen to your chest. Will you allow me to touch you?”
She glanced at Boland, who gave an encouraging nod.
“If you must,” she grumbled. “Please be quick about it.”
Lord Randolph cleared his throat loudly. “I'll wait in the corridor, Dr. Blackmore.”
Boland rose and closed the door after the earl, allowing John to take her place on the bed. He gently pried Bathsheba's hands from their death grip on the sheets and slipped the crumpled linens out from under her body.
“Why don't you tuck back into bed, my lady? I don't want you getting a chill.”
John needed her as warm and relaxed as possible so she would tolerate his examination. And as he glanced at her slender legsâexposed under the rucked-up hem of her chemiseâhe realized he had to get those lovely limbs tucked out of sight if he hoped to concentrate on his work. Doctoring the beautiful countess presented a greater challenge than he had anticipated.
She mumbled something under her breath as he helped her ease between the crisp sheets.
“I beg your pardon, my lady?”
“I said, it's a little late, isn't it? I've already caught the damn chill.”
He smiled. Her refusal to be anything less than her sharptongued self was oddly endearing.
With Boland's help, he propped the countess up on a stack of pillows. As gently as he could, he unlaced the top of her chemise, exposing the creamy whiteness of her chest. His fingers lost a touch of their normal steadiness as he pushed the delicate fabric to her shoulders.
Bloody hell.
What was the matter with him?
He glanced at her face and paused, caught by the hectic flush spreading across her cheekbones. She cast down her gaze, just as she had done at the Dellworthys' dinner party when he stared at her.
“Doctor! What are you doing?” Boland's sharp voice broke the tension. She moved to the other side of the bed, taking her mistress's hand in a firm grasp.
“I need to listen for congestion in Lady Randolph's chest,” he replied. “It will help me diagnose her ailment.”
He gave the countess a reassuring smile. “Try to relax, my lady. Just breathe normally.”
Extracting a small, hollow wooden tube from his medical bag, John sat next to Lady Randolph on the bed. He angled his head over her chest, pressing an ear to one end of the tube and resting the other end on the top of her breast. Even with the few inches of wood between them, the heat from her skin washed over him.
“What is that thing?” she gasped in a panicky voice.
“It helps me to listen, my lady. Just try to relax.”
As her breathing slowed, he began to hear scratches and raling sounds in her lungs. Pulling back slightly, he brought his hands to her chest and gave her several firm taps around the breastbone and over the lungs. The answering sound was muted and dull.
He sat up, concealing his growing unease. Where in God's name had she caught so severe an infection?
“Why did you do that?” she grumbled, rubbing the marks he had left on her white skin. “It hurt.”
He gently brushed her hands aside. “I'm sorry, my lady. Just one more listen,” he said, bending over her chest again. “Please take a deep breath.”
This time, he tried it without the tube. The swell of her creamy flesh pressed against his ear as she struggled to take in a breath. At any other time he would have been entranced by the luscious sensation, but right now all he felt was alarm.
He straightened, meeting Boland's eyes. She blinked. The look on his face must have confirmed her fears.
Damn.
His discipline must be slipping. He made a point of never showing strong emotions in the sickroom.
Schooling his features into a pleasant expression, he looked down at Lady Randolph. Her emerald eyes had begun to take on an unnatural sheenâdelirium taking hold once more. He laid his hand against her damp cheek, hoping his touch would keep her with them. When she didn't respond he leaned down to stare directly into her eyes.
“Lady Randolph. Can you hear me? You must rest now. I'll return in a few minutes to give you something to ease your fever and help you breathe.”
Her gaze wandered and she began muttering again, paying him no heed. Boland voiced a quiet moan, fear finally breaking through her icy calm. He inclined his head to indicate that she follow him to the door.
“I'm going to send for additional supplies from Dr. Littleton,” he said. “Lady Randolph is suffering from a highly infectious complaint. It would be best if no one came into this room except you and me. She needs careful nursing, as her fever may well grow worse before it breaks.”
Boland gripped the front of her skirts. “It will break, won't it?”
John studied her. She obviously adored her mistress and was shaken to the core. He didn't want to frighten her, but he would need her help if they had any chance of saving the countess.
“I hope so. I will do everything in my power to help.”
“Will you stay, Doctor?”
“Yes. I'll send for my kit and extra clothing. I promise you I won't leave Compton Manor until her ladyship is out of danger.”
She grabbed his hand and pressed it to her cheek. “God bless you, sir.”
Before he could pull his hand away, she dropped it and hurried back to the bed. He shook himself free from his momentary paralysis and stepped out into the hallway.
The earl waited for him there, pale and anxious. John swiftly apprised him of the situation, scrawling down instructions in his pocket notebook as he talked.
“Dr. Blackmore,” the earl interrupted, “would you like me to send for Miss Elliott? She's a levelheaded woman with a great deal of experience in the sickroom.”
John turned a startled exclamation into a cough. If Lady Randolph came to her senses and saw Miss Elliott looming over her, she'd likely go into a fatal spasm.
“No, my lord. Her illness is highly contagious. I don't want anyone entering the room except Miss Boland and myself. Is that clear?”
The earl bobbed his head like a demented quail. A very frightened demented quail. Like Boland, he clearly had a great deal of affection for his cousin. John hadn't thought Lady Randolph the kind of woman to inspire such loyalty.
He handed the earl his instructions for Dr. Littleton and stepped back into the room. Boland sat quietly by the bed watching her mistress who had fallen into an uneasy slumber.
“Miss Boland.”
“Yes, sir?”
“I need to know how and where Lady Randolph contracted this fever, so I might effect a better treatment.”
She suddenly looked wary, her newfound trust vanishing in an instant.
“I don't know, sir.” She set her jaw in mutinous defiance, and he knew with certainty she lied.
“She could not have caught it at Compton Manor or in town,” he replied. “A few villagers were sick several days ago, but she would not have been exposed to them.”
Boland clamped her mouth shut.
“I'll ask the earl if you won't tell me.”
She glared at him.
“I only wish to help her ladyship,” he said gently. “I will keep anything you tell me in the strictest confidence. You have my word as a physician and a gentleman.”
She studied him. Sunlight glinted off her spectacles, hiding the expression in her eyes.
“In Thirsk,” she finally replied. “She was visiting . . . distant relations.”
That was closer to the truth, but she still held something back.
“And?”
“One of them, a young lady, fell ill with this same fever.”
He frowned. “Why didn't Lady Randolph return immediately to Ripon?”
Boland's jaw worked. “Because she insisted on staying to nurse the lady.”
John couldn't hold back his surprise. “Lady Randolph? Nursing a sick relative? I find that rather hard to believe.”
Contempt flared in her eyes, obvious even behind the spectacles.
“Only because you don't know her! No one does. You all think the worst, but my lady is the best woman in the world. If only you could see her as I do.”
As her voice rang with barely repressed fury, Lady Randolph jerked in her sleep, reacting to the emotions that swirled around her. Boland gasped and turned her head, fighting to regain control.
“You're right,” John said. “I don't know her, and I have no right to judge. Please forgive my impertinence.”
She gave a grudging nod but refused to look at him. He had lost ground with her, and would have to make it up.
“Miss Boland, did her ladyship's relative survive the illness?”
“Yes, although it was not initially thought she would.”
“Then it's best to assume the countess will, as well. She's obviously a strong woman. In fact,” he mused, “it surprises me that she succumbed so quickly. I would not have thought it possible given how healthy she was a few days ago.”
After a fraught silence, Boland said, “My lady has had many troubles lately. She is worn to the bone.”
He studied the beautiful, frail woman in the bed, her pale brow furrowed in pain, her limbs twitching restlessly beneath the sheets.
“Yes, I thought as much,” he said, almost to himself. “I wanted to help her, but she rebuffed me.”
Boland's voice, heavy with despair, fell like a leaden weight on him.
“No one can help her, Dr. Blackmore. Not even you.”
John came awake with a start, struggling to remember where he was and why his back ached like the devil.
Ah, yes.
He had fallen asleep in the ladder-back chair by Lady Randolph's bed, a piece of furniture that seemed designed by Torquemada himself. Not that any other piece of furniture in the room promised greater comfort. Every chair either sagged into decrepitude or had survived the passage of time simply because the wood was so hard nothing short of a raging bonfire could destroy it.
All was not well on Lord Randolph's estate, beginning with the sick woman huddled in the bed.
The countess was babbling again. That must be what had awakened him.
John hauled himself up, ignoring the protesting ache of his muscles. He and Boland had spent the last three days nursing Lady Randolph, battling the fever as it edged higher and refused to break. They had tried everything in his usual arsenal of medicinals, and several that were not. They had applied mustard plasters to clear her lungs and linseed oil poultices to ease her pain. John had poured ipecac syrup down her throat, dosed her with laudanum, and tried several combinations of powders sent over by the village apothecary. Boland had forced her to drink willow bark tea, nourishing broths, and barley water. They had managed to keep her alive, but for how much longer?