Blood Rites

by Sharon K Gilbert

  “My darling Dr. Price,” Elizabeth said as the medical man shut the door behind him. “I’m so sorry to be such a bother. I’m fine, you know. Really. I’m sure that little faint is nothing.”

  Price set his bag to one side and pulled a chair close to the bed. He kissed her hand, a thick shock of white hair falling across his forehead as he bent forward. “It is I must apologise to you, my lady, for abandoning you whilst I tended to others at the hall. Five, not three maids there have taken ill, and two young pages. Also, six children on the farms: four boys and two girls. All with measles. Had you not had them as a girl, I would insist you avoid all those who are sick, but I’m convinced that you’re at no risk. It seems, however, that you’re a bit paler than when I left.”

  “So everyone keeps saying,” she said, sitting up. “Dr. Whitmore tended to me yesterday evening. I suppose he told you.”

  “He did. In fact, Reggie met me at Victoria station. Now, before we discuss this most recent faint, tell me about your fall down the stairs. What do you recall?”

  “Very little, I’m afraid. I’ve a bit of a headache,” she said, “back here, beneath my hairline.”

  He felt the nape of her neck, gently pressing the delicate skin. “There’s a tiny swelling remaining, but it is nearly imperceptible. Does it hurt when I push?”

  “No, not really.”

  “Good. How is your vision today?” he asked, making notes in a small book.

  “Normal, I think.” She thought of the shadow at the window. Am I seeing things that aren’t really there? No, the dog saw it, too!

  “Shut one eye at a time, and tell me if you notice anything unusual.”

  She closed first the left and then the right. “Clear as always. What do you suspect, George?”

  “Nothing and everything,” he said. “Any double vision?” She shook her head. “Bright flashes of light? Mysterious shadows crossing your vision, when you move your eyes suddenly?”

  “What do you mean by shadows?” she asked, tensely.

  He had been examining her pupils with a lens, but he pulled back, touching her forearm. “Do forgive me, Elizabeth. Not those kinds of shadows. No, nothing like that, my dear. I should have been more careful in my wording. I refer to artefacts that appear like bits of smoke or little clouds within the line of vision, most noticeable whenever we move our eyes suddenly. They might indicate a tear to the interior portion of the eye. But your vision is clean and clear?”

  “Yes. As I said, I’ve a slight headache, but I’d had them even before the fall. And I’m a bit tired, though better than yesterday. Charles slept here last night. On that sofa,” she explained, pointing to the couch which had been returned to the fireplace by a footman. “There’s something about his presence that stops all my nightmares,” she whispered, “so having him sleep in here helped me to rest more easily. Did you see Charles on your way up?”

  “He had not yet returned from visiting a friend, or so Miles told me.”

  “Lady Morehouse,” the duchess replied. “The widow of Charles’s former superior officer. He was killed last month.”

  “Yes, that is the name. Elizabeth, have you noticed any nausea today? Dizziness?”

  “I’m not very hungry, does that count? No dizziness, though.”

  “Good,” he said.

  “My fiancé worries that some undiagnosed illness lurks within me, George. Is that possible? Might I have measles? Is it possible that I never really had them as a girl?”

  “My records show that you had them when you were five, Elizabeth. However, if there is some lingering illness, we’ll find it. Now, let me ask you a few questions first. All right?”

  She nodded. “Ask whatever you wish, dear doctor.”

  “Very well. Yesterday, I mentioned that you seemed somewhat thinner than when last I saw you. When was that? Early October, I think.”

  “The seventh,” she told him. “The day we escaped in Inspector Reid’s magnificent balloon. Paul had been seriously injured, as you know. Shot through the shoulder. I suppose that distressed me a great deal, but he is completely healed now. The past weeks have been a great blur—though a happy one.”

  “I imagine they have. That would be, what, about four and a half weeks past?”

  “It will be five weeks on Sunday,” she answered.

  “Ah, yes. Then, when you arrived in Scotland, Dr. Lemuel administered some form of sleeping drug. Do we know what it was?”

  “No, we do not,” she told him. “Dr. Lemuel was killed before Charles could elicit that information, I’m afraid. Does it matter?”

  “It might. Some compounds can leave residual effects. And then afterward, you and the marquess were both poisoned, is that not so? Belladonna, I believe.”

  “Yes, I think that’s what it was. You should ask Charles. My memories of it are, as I’ve said, rather imprecise.”

  “Yes, I imagine so,” he said. “Now, allow me to check your heart, Elizabeth.” Price used a binaural stethoscope to listen, his experienced ears picking up no worrying sounds. “Your heart is sound and in love,” he said with a mischievous grin. “It repeats Sinclair over and over.”

  Beth laughed. “I’ve no doubt that it does.”

  “You are in love, aren’t you, my dear? I’m very glad to see it. I thought that perhaps your heart leaned in that direction, even at Branham last month. It was certainly clear that Charles had already fallen in love with you. Yes, much has happened in a very short time, which may explain your current state of excitation. Now, tell me about this night on the farm, when you ingested the belladonna mixture. Did anyone ever discover just what was in the tea? Is there proof it was belladonna?”

  “I suppose there is not. My grandfather’s housekeeper is a nurse, and she thought the symptoms consistent with such. But Charles has no proclivity towards fainting, and he drank far more of the tea than I.”

  “He did? Well, then it’s unlikely that the drug is the cause of your spells. You mentioned that Charles sleeps in here to keep watch. Have you suffered nightmares of late, as you once did? Experienced any strange, oh, what shall we call them, visions?”

  Her smile disappeared. “Yes. Yes, I have. Each night, I dream things that leave me restless, though I cannot always recall their content. Yet I awaken with dread in my heart. And I’ve seen shadows now and then. Once inside this room, in fact. I’m sure I saw Sir William Trent, but surely that cannot be, Doctor. Might I have dreamt it? Tell me I’m not going mad, please!”

  He took her hand, his lined face softening into a compassionate smile. “My dear, you are one of the sanest women I have ever known. No, if you believe you saw something, then it is quite likely that it was really there. Tell me, this sense of dread you mentioned. Does it remain with you all day long?”

  “Sometimes, but it often fades whenever Charles is near. Do you think that these night terrors might be causing my symptoms? George, I have never fallen down stairs in my life! And though I try to disguise it, my balance is sometimes unreliable.”

  “Your appetite remains diminished?”

  She nodded. “And I find myself quite sick to my stomach at times. Smells also. Foods I used to love now leave me queasy. Is it nerves, do you think?”

  “Perhaps. But I think another cause more likely. Elizabeth, is it possible that you might—well, that you might be pregnant?”

  Her eyes grew round and wide, and Price could see an odd combination of panic and realisation in her face.

  He gently patted her hand. “My dear, I ask not because I think your fiancé’s conduct or intentions improper. Never. That man loves and respects you. No, I ask because of what the duke told me two days ago—what Charles told him about that night on the farm. Is it possible?”

  She nodded slowly. “Yes,” she said softly. “I think it is, and I cannot understand why it never occurred to me. But Charles was not to blame, G
eorge! Please, you mustn’t think him in any way guilty of taking advantage!”

  “I do not,” he assured her, patting her hand. “All right. Now, with full knowledge of the situation, of all the possibilities that come to my mind, your symptoms are most consistent with pregnancy. Reggie Whitmore had already drawn that conclusion, so that’s two old physicians who agree. It would be quite early for you to exhibit these symptoms so strongly in my experience—yet, it does not preclude it from being so. I have seen it twice before, and each instance concluded with the birth of a healthy baby boy. Now, with your permission, I should like to bring in another physician. Someone with experience in diagnosing early pregnancy. Would you object to that?”

  “No, of course not. Should I tell Charles?”

  “I would want to know, if you were my intended. May I tell him?”

  She thought about this. “Shouldn’t I be the one?” she asked.

  “I think you should discuss it together, but permit me to break the news. Charles was married once before, was he not?”

  “Yes. His wife abandoned him for another, but later died in Ireland.”

  “I see. Let me speak to him, and then the two of you may talk. Elizabeth, you must proceed under the assumption that you now carry a life within you—a tiny child, who is wholly dependent upon your care and tending. The early weeks are very important, and your body will consume nutrients quickly, which means you must eat. Lots of water, also. Now, I’ll speak with Charles. I’ll begin the search for a second consult at once. Do you have any preferences?”

  “Regarding?”

  “Man or woman. I’ve met many accomplished female physicians of late. You might find one of them more comfortable.”

  “Nonsense. I have no preference in that direction. I only want the best person. I shall leave that choice to you and my—my soon to be husband,” she added with a smile at the thought of bearing the Captain’s child. “Thank you, George. It never occurred to me that I might—well, that I might be with child. Yet, it makes sense for many reasons. I am late. My menses, I mean. I’d assumed it was because of nerves, but I’ve never been late before.”

  “Is that so? Then, we really must have a second consult. Stay off your feet for the remainder of the day, my dear. Light exercise tomorrow. Short walks when weather permits, but only in the company of another, and no horseback riding, I’m afraid. Not until after the child is born. And be sure you are never alone when traversing the stairs until you are steadier on your feet. I’ll wait for Charles downstairs. Try to sleep, all right?”

  He kissed her forehead and took his bag, leaving the room. Elizabeth closed her eyes, a strange feeling overwhelming her thoughts. A child. Children, perhaps, as the years progressed.

  Three graves.

  Now, why would I think of that? she wondered, trying to relax. Too many faces, a voice whispered in her mind. Do you remember? The Watchtower room and all its pretty mirrors?

  Rather than yield to the voice and the rising fears, Beth reached for the Bible, turned to Psalm 91, and began to read.

  The marquess entered Queen Anne House just as Westminster’s Tower chimes sounded three o’clock. “Where is the duchess?” he asked the butler as he handed his overcoat to a footman.

  Cordelia Simpson jumped to her feet at hearing Sinclair speak, and she provided the answer before Miles could reply. “She’s upstairs,” she said as Lady Cartringham joined her in the doorway.

  “Good afternoon, Lord Haimsbury,” the countess said, her eyes bright at seeing the handsome marquess again. “Do forgive us for interrupting your day. We were visiting with the duchess, when she suddenly took a very strange turn and collapsed onto the carpet.”

  The countess continued speaking, but Charles heard very little of it, for he’d rushed towards the stairs, taking them three at a time, and he reached the apartment just as George Price was exiting.

  “Dr. Price, is Elizabeth all right?”

  “Let’s go downstairs, shall we? I’ve asked the duchess to rest, but to make certain of it, I’ve given her a sleeping powder. Perhaps the library?”

  “Yes, of course. But she is all right?” he asked again as they descended the stairs. “May I not see her?”

  “In time, of course. But first, I’d like to speak with you, in private.”

  In a few moments, the two men had repaired to the library, and the physician shut and locked the door. “Do, sit, sir. Make yourself comfortable. I hope you don’t mind if I sit. I’ve had a rather long day, so it aids my old legs to give them a rest now and then.”

  Sinclair found himself unable to relax, but he did his best, taking a chair across from the physician. “Is she ill?”

  Price actually smiled. “I do not believe so, Charles. May I call you that?”

  “Yes, of course. But Beth is all right?”

  “She is not ill, nor is she suffering from any negative consequences of the fall on the stairs. Let me be clear, however. Elizabeth may have a condition which requires careful watching and doctoring.”

  Sinclair’s blue eyes grew still, and he could hear his heartbeat thumping in his ears. “You’ve spoken with Reggie.”

  “I have, and I agree with his conclusion. Charles, I think it quite likely that Elizabeth is carrying your child now, but it is unusual for a woman to exhibit such hallmark symptoms this early. Is the conception date fixed or mutable?”

  Sinclair appeared stunned, and he jumped to his feet. “Is it what?”

  “Perhaps, I should pour you a drink.”

  The marquess nodded, and the doctor helped him back into the blue and yellow chair. “If I knew where the duchess keeps her spirits, I would offer something stronger,” he said with a smile, pouring water into a small glass. “Or perhaps champagne would be appropriate, given such happy news.”

  Charles drank the contents in one long swallow, and then set the empty glass onto a nearby table. “What was it you asked me?”

  “The date. Conception date. Is it mutable or fixed?”

  “Mutable? Dr. Price...”

  “George. Call me George.”

  “Yes, thank you. George, if you ask whether or not Beth and I have done anything willfully improper, the answer is no! Once—only once! That night in the cottage, under the influence of powerful drugs and perhaps even some strange enchantment. If Reggie or the duke spoke to you, then you must know what happened!”

  “Yes, I do, but I had to ask,” Price replied calmly. “Surely, as a detective, you understand the importance of thorough investigation. All right, if the conception date is fixed at the eighth—that is right, is it not?”

  “Yes, the eighth of October.”

  “Well, then that would put her at four and a half weeks. I am perplexed at the early appearance of such severe symptoms, so I’d like your permission to bring in another consultant.”

  “Someone you know? Reggie mentioned a fellow named Michael Emerson.” Sinclair replied, his brain simultaneously sorting through all that the news implied—a child, an innocent life that Redwing would try to manipulate and mould into its own foul design.

  “I’m not familiar with Emerson,” Price continued, “but I respect Whitmore’s opinion. Still, I’d like to make enquiries. I have several trusted colleagues whom I might ask, but I shall call it a pre-marital examination. Such matters are customary in these old families. Most peerage grooms want to ensure the purity and even fertility of the bride, you know. When we find a man we might trust, be that Emerson or another, then we will reveal our true purpose. Does that suit?”

  “George, as you mentioned, I’m a policeman. I am not inclined to trust easily, but if you say this new man is worthy of my faith, then I shall endeavour to offer it. Beth is my life. Truly, sir, she is, and her welfare…”

  “And your child’s,” the doctor added.

  “Yes. And our child’s,” he said, the reality of it
all hitting home. “Both rely upon my choices. I cannot make a mistake. Please, not again.”

  “Again?” Price asked.

  “It is a long tale, George, and I would not make this day longer for you, but I lost my son because of my own failures. I cannot—I will not lose another.”

  “I see. Well, then, if I may begin, I shall visit as many candidates as possible yet today. For now, I believe Elizabeth wishes to speak to you. I daresay she was as surprised by my diagnosis as you. I hope it pleases.”

  Sinclair smiled at last, as reality finally crystallized in his mind. “More than I can say,” he answered, his eyes bright now. “Far more than I can ever say.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  4:05 pm

  “Pregnant?” James Stuart repeated, his dark eyes glistening. “Charles, are you sure?”

  “Two doctors have pronounced it so,” Sinclair replied. “A child, James. A baby.”

  “Praise be to the Lord!” the duke shouted merrily, slapping his hands together, his entire face alight with joy. “Charles, my boy, this is the best news this old man’s heard in a month o’ Sundays! They’re absolutely sure now? No mistaking it?”

  “I don’t know if they’re one hundred percent sure, sir, but both Price and Whitmore believe her to be with child. Honestly, sir, this is not how I’d have chosen to begin our lives together, but I’d be lying if I didn’t say how happy it makes me.”

  “This calls for a drink!” the Scotsman cried out, slapping his nephew on the back. “Oh, but let’s be easy about telling Paul, shall we? He’s dealing with the changes your marriage to Beth has brought in his own way, and I’d not upset that apple cart. Once the wedding’s over, we’ll share the good news with him. For now, let’s just keep it to ourselves.”

  The duke poured two scotches and handed one to his nephew. “To our little duchess,” he said, raising his glass. “The finest woman on the planet, and soon to be the finest wife and mother as well. So, boy or girl? Do you have a preference?”