Three Weddings and a Kiss
Page 21
Dain had chuckled, but something in his dark gaze made Dorian edgy. “Am I overly optimistic?” he’d asked. “If you have doubts of my capabilities, Dain, I wish you—”
“I was only wondering why the devil you don’t cut your hair,” Dain had said. “While I doubt your coiffure would affect your credibility—you’re a Camoys, after all—I should think it was a damned nuisance to look after—as though there won’t be enough in organizing this project.”
Dorian had smiled sheepishly. “My wife likes it.”
“And you are besotted, poor fool.” Dain had given him a commiserating look, then laughed. “Well, then, I collect this is as rational as you’re ever going to be. Make the most of it, I say.”
Dorian was determined to make the most of it.
Accordingly, on the second night of their return home, he explained to Gwendolyn his idea about getting an early start on her hospital.
She told him it was an excellent idea and she seemed very enthusiastic, but Dorian could not shake off the feeling that her mind was elsewhere: on his accursed ailment and its provoking mysteries. He was strongly tempted to lecture her. He suppressed the urge and made love to her instead.
The following afternoon, they settled down in the library to discuss the matter in detail, and she was the same. She talked enthusiastically of her ideas, and obligingly sketched out a rough plan for the building itself and described the functions of different areas. All the same, Dorian sensed that her mind was not fully engaged.
In the following days, she went on working cheerfully with him, transforming her dreams into orderly facts and specifications, but the note of abstraction remained.
Dorian bore it patiently. He had learned from her that it was often possible to combine several treatments to combat an ailment’s array of symptoms. One remedy for sick headaches, for instance, combined laudanum with ipecac—the former to dull the pain and the latter to relieve the nausea by inducing vomiting.
He had, likewise, devised a combination treatment for her. One of the “medications” arrived a week after their return from Athcourt.
Dorian slipped into her study and left the packet on her desk while she was consulting with the cook about the following day’s menu. Then he left the house, to work on the next part of the remedy.
An hour later, Gwendolyn stood in the study doorway, gazing blankly at Hoskins.
“He’s gone to Okehampton,” the manservant said for the second time. “He had an appointment. Something to do with the hospital, he said.”
“Oh. Oh, yes. With Mr. Dobbin.” Gwendolyn turned away. “He reminded me at breakfast. So silly of me to forget. My wits must be wandering. Thank you, Hoskins.”
She stood in the doorway, staring at the thick letter on her desk while Hoskins’s footsteps faded away.
Then she shut the door and returned to her desk and took up the letter again with trembling hands.
It was from Mr. Borson, the physician in whose care Aminta Camoys had been placed. It was in response to an inquiry from Dorian. He had written to Borson a fortnight ago, it turned out, without telling her.
Dorian had attached a note to Borson’s letter: “Here it is, Doctor Gwendolyn—with all the deliciously grisly details. I shall expect to find you writhing with uncontrollable lust by the time I return.”
Gwendolyn read the note again, for the tenth time, and this time she could not control herself. She covered her face with her hands and wept, not because of Borson’s reply, but because of what it had cost her husband to obtain it, to write and seek a favor from the man he viewed as his mother’s torturer, if not her murderer.
Dorian had done it for Gwendolyn’s sake, and that was what made her heart ache, unbearably, so that she wept, like the wife she was instead of the doctor she wanted to be.
Or had thought she wanted to be.
Or imagined she was capable of being.
She was not behaving very capably now, she scolded herself.
She wiped away her tears and told herself there would be plenty of time to cry later. A lifetime, if she chose to devote it to grief, and throw away the gifts God had given her, and all that her husband was trying to give her. He knew she was trying to learn, and he was trying to help her in every way he could.
She had no business weeping about it. She knew it made Dorian happy to help her. Furthermore, Borson’s letter contained exceedingly valuable information. She had seen that in the first quick perusal. He had even enclosed a copy of the post mortem report, which would solve several nagging riddles…once she could get her mind to focus properly. And stay focused, which was not easy lately.
She kept forgetting things and missing things. She had spent a full week with Jessica before realizing her cousin was breeding. Gwendolyn had not been able to put the simplest symptoms together: physical evidence any medical student would have discerned, not to mention the uncharacteristic moodiness. Twice, while Gwendolyn had been there, Jessica—who never wept—had burst into tears for no apparent reason, and several times she had lost her temper over the most trivial matters.
Jessica had said nothing about it, and Gwendolyn had tactfully refrained from questioning her. After all, it was early days yet, and the first trimester was a notoriously uncertain…period.
Trimester…twelve weeks…symptoms…
Gwendolyn stared blindly at the autopsy report.
She had been wed for more than six weeks.
Her last menses had been two weeks before the wedding.
The report dropped from her nerveless fingers, and her gaze dropped to her belly.
“Oh, my goodness,” she whispered.
Dorian sat in a private parlor of Okehampton’s Golden Hart Inn, not with the fictional Mr. Dobbin, but with Bertie Trent, whose square face was twisted into a painful grimace.
This was because Bertie was trying to think.
“Well, Eversham do need money,” Bertie said finally. “But he ain’t the sort that gets on with other fellows so well, which if he was, he wouldn’t be stuck in Chippenham, which even Gwen said, but he got on fine with her, and Aunt Claire liked him well enough, seeing as how he was the only one knew what to make of her spells.”
“He doesn’t need to get on with the other fellows,” Dorian said. “He only needs to tell us what to do. Dain and I agree that we need an experienced physician on the hospital planning committee.”
He also needed someone who could talk to Gwendolyn in her own language and make her listen and face facts. And take better care of herself.
But all that was explained in Dorian’s letter. The thick packet lay on the table between him and Bertie, who was eyeing it dubiously, still reluctant for some reason to take it up.
“It’s hospital information,” Dorian said. This was partly true, although the bulk of the contents consisted of his copies of Borson’s materials—so that Eversham would arrive armed with facts for his intellectual joust with Gwendolyn. “I hope he finds the proposal irresistible. If he doesn’t, I am counting on you to use your unique powers of persuasion. As you did with Borson.”
As soon as Dorian had realized he must write to Borson, he’d realized he’d need more than a letter. Physicians could be balky, and they did like to keep secrets, Gwendolyn had said. Also, they were often too busy with patients to attend to correspondence. Unwilling to risk a wait that could extend to months, Dorian had decided to send for Bertie.
What Trent lacked in intelligence he made up for in loyalty and stubbornness. He was loyal to Dorian, and Bertie would stubbornly persist until Borson gave him what he came for. Which Borson had done, when he realized there was no other way to get rid of him.
Dorian trusted that Bertie’s loyalty and obstinacy would serve equally well with Eversham. Gwendolyn’s hero had not sounded like the sort of man who would come running at the snap of a nobleman’s fingers.
“Still, if it doesn’t work, we can try something else,” Dorian added, because Bertie was still frowning. “I realize this will be more difficult than dealing
with Borson. We’re asking Eversham to give up his practice and pick up and leave, which is no small matter. Even if he agrees, I realize it will take some time to settle his affairs. But you will make sure he understands I’ll cover all expenses and use my influence as needed. Make sure he realizes I’m a man of my word, Bertie—that this is no madman’s whim. If he has doubts, he can write to Dain.”
Bertie blinked very hard. “You ain’t mad, Cat. No more ’n I am—and looking well, too, better than before. She’s done you good, hasn’t she?”
“Of course I’m not mad,” Dorian said. “And it’s all thanks to Gwendolyn. She is wonderful and I am…exceedingly happy,” he added with a smile. I want her to be happy, too, he added silently.
The clouds vanished from Bertie’s expression and a light shone in his pale blue eyes. “I knew you’d like her, Cat. I knew she’d do you good.”
Dorian understood what the light signified and had no trouble guessing what Bertie wanted to believe.
But Bertie had not read Borson’s account or the post-mortem report, and even if he had, he wouldn’t have grasped even the fraction Dorian had comprehended. And that was far more than he’d done the first time, seven years ago, long before Gwendolyn had explained about the brain’s unique self-sufficiency, which made it so susceptible to self-destruction.
Bertie wouldn’t understand that the destruction couldn’t be repaired or halted, even by Gwendolyn. He didn’t know that, once begun, the decay continued relentlessly…the way it had at Rawnsley Hall, quietly moldering under the surface until the roof caved in.
Bertie believed that “good” equaled “cured,” and Dorian hadn’t the heart to explain the difference.
“I like her immensely, Bertie,” he said. “And she has done me a world of good.”
Gwendolyn wanted to build the hospital in Dartmoor.
Which meant she intended to stay here, permanently.
She stood at the library window, looking out, and Dorian gazed at her in despair.
He stood at the table, where he’d laid out several rough architectural sketches of the hospital, moments before pressing her for an answer to the question he’d asked every day for the past five days.
He had not wanted to press her.
Two weeks had passed since his clandestine meeting with Bertie, and Dorian had received no word from him. Meanwhile Gwendolyn was becoming ill. Her countenance alternated between weary pallor and a hectic flush, and she was becoming short-tempered, doubtless because she was sleeping poorly. Last night she’d bolted up from the pillows babbling about “extravavasation” of something or other.
“Gwendolyn, you can’t live here,” he said, his voice calm, his mind churning with troubling images of her future.
“I like it here,” she said. “From the moment I came, it felt like homecoming.”
“This is not a healthy climate,” he said. “Even in the valleys, the damp settles in and—”
“Poor people cannot afford to transport sick relatives to coastal resorts or travel back and forth to visit them.” She turned around. “The moor folk need a modern hospital. And damp is scarcely an issue. Bath is damp and cold, and people in all stages of illness and decrepitude live there while taking the waters.”
“This is not a healthy place for you,” he said tightly. “You’ve been here only two months and—” He thrust his hand through his hair. Say it, he commanded himself. It was time to stop pretending. She was ill, and he was making her so, and it was time to confront that, with or without Eversham.
The fellow should have been here by now, curse him, Dorian thought. Eversham would know what to do, what to say. He was an experienced, allegedly brilliant physician. He would solve the exasperating riddle for her, and make her face facts.
“You are not well,” Dorian said. “You don’t eat properly or sleep properly and you are tired and—and unreasonable. You sulked for two hours last night because dinner was ‘boring,’ you said.”
“She was supposed to use the spices,” Gwendolyn said stiffly. Her hands fisted at her sides. “I sent to London for them, and explained to Cook—about phlegm and congestion and reducing the pressure from excess fluid—and she went ahead and made…pap.”
Dorian sighed. He had talked to Hoskins, who’d talked to Cook, who’d said the pungent spices would give Her Ladyship indigestion, which was what kept her awake nights. Everyone knew they “raised the blood,” Cook had said.
“Cook is worried about you,” he said. “We are all worried about you.”
She rolled her eyes. “Oh, this is lovely. I am on my way to a medical breakthrough, and no one will cooperate—because they have taken it into their heads to worry.” She marched to the table. “If I were a man—accepted as a scientist—I would merely be ‘preoccupied’ with my work. But because I am a woman, I am taking a fit of the vapors, and my blood must be lowered. Lowered.” She struck the table with her fist. “Of all the antiquated, medieval notions. It’s a wonder I can think at all, with so much nonsense and anxiety clouding the atmosphere about me. As though it were not enough, trouble concentrating, in this cond—” She broke off, scowled at the drawings, and moved away from the table toward the door.
“I need some fresh air,” she said.
But Dorian got there before she did, and blocked the way. “Gwen, it’s raining,” he said. “And you…” The rest of the sentence faded as he took in her appearance. Her face was flushed and her bosom was rising and falling rapidly, as though she’d been running for miles, and…He frowned. “Your frock has shrunk.”
She looked down at herself.
“It’s a wonder you can breathe,” he said. “It’s a wonder the seams of your bodice haven’t split.”
She retreated a pace. “It is not a wonder,” she said, her gaze averted. “This happens to all the women in my family. We are so obvious.” She drew a long, shaky breath. “I’m…breeding.”
“Oh.” He sagged back against the door. “I see. Yes. Of course.”
The room was dark, reeling about him, while within, another darkness settled like a vast weight. His eyes ached, and his throat, too, and his heart was a wedge of solid pain in his chest.
“Don’t!” she cried. “Don’t you dare give way, Dorian. Don’t even think about sickening now.” She flung herself against him and his arms closed, reflexively, round her.
Her head pressed against his aching chest. “I am happy,” she said shakily. “I want our baby. And I want you to be there.”
“Oh, Gwen.”
“It isn’t impossible,” she said. “Another seven months or so, that’s all we need.” She drew back and gave him a smile as wobbly as her voice. “If I were an elephant, it would be different. The gestation period is twenty and a half months.”
He managed a shaky laugh. “Yes, let’s look on the bright side. At least you are not an elephant.”
“I shall look like one at the end,” she said. “You wouldn’t want to miss that, would you?”
He wove his fingers through her wild hair. “No, I wouldn’t, sweet. You present me with an irresistible temptation.”
“I hope so.” She patted his chest. “The patient’s motivation can have a pronounced effect on treatment, Mr. Eversham says.” Her voice was nearly returned to its normal cool efficiency. “I should have told you about the baby sooner, but this is an uncertain period, and I did not want to get your hopes up for nothing. Still, perhaps I was overcautious. It is rare for the women of my family to miscarry.”
Seven more months, Dorian thought. He’d been given less than that before she came, and she’d been here for two months now.
Yet he was doing better than his mother had at this stage. The visual chimera had not worsened, blossomed into demons. His temper remained relatively even. No sudden black melancholy or inexplicable fits of gaiety or rage.
Instead, there was the fierce rapture of their love-making, and the moments of quiet contentment, and the joy of working with her, planning something worthwhile.
It was not impossible.
A few extra months, he told himself. Long enough to see their baby. That would be wonderful. And if it did turn out to be impossible, at least he would have given Gwendolyn a child, which would surely gladden her heart and banish any sentimental inclination to mourn for him.
Nevertheless, her wishing to remain here was not a good sign. She needed to start a new life, in a new place, away from sad memories. But Eversham would arrive eventually, Dorian assured himself. Her mentor would set her right.
Dorian drew his wife tightly against him. “I shall try to maintain a positive attitude,” he promised softly.
“And you must speak to Cook,” Gwendolyn muttered into his shirt front. “Remind her who is the doctor in this house. I ordered a curry for dinner—and it must be hot.”
He chuckled. “Yes, crosspatch.” He kissed the top of her head. “But first, let us see what Doctor Dorian can do to sweeten your temper.”
7
Ten days later, Gwendolyn was recalling that conversation and the methods Dorian had employed to sweeten her temper. He had used the same techniques every day since, kissing and caressing the irritation away, drawing her out of her annoying moods and into his strong arms, to take her to heaven and back, and leave her dazed with bliss.
Now, sitting in Mr. Kneebones’s surgery, she focused on those blissful sensations in order to keep her temper from taking over and leading her to do the physician a severe, possibly fatal, bodily injury.
It was hardly the first time she’d humbled herself with doctors, she told herself, and Dorian was far more important than her pride.
She treated Kneebones to an apologetic smile. “I only want to know whether those materials prove absolutely what made Mrs. Camoys’s brain start breaking down.”