“It’s all right. I wouldn’t have asked you to come now, except Mama is doing so poorly. I was caring for her well enough until this evening, when I started feeling a bit queasy.”
“The sea was rougher today,” Marsali concurred. Her own stomach had felt a bit unsettled at times.
“It was. So I drank that nasty tonic Mama bought from the peddler at the dock, and I’ve felt worse and worse.”
“What tonic?” Marsali tucked the blanket over Lydia and brushed the hair back from her face. Her forehead felt clammy.
“It was supposed to keep us from becoming seasick.” Lydia managed a wry smile, reassuring Marsali somewhat that she wasn’t too ill— yet.
“Here is your bucket should you feel you’re going to be ill.” Marsali placed the pail next to the bed. “I’m going to check on your mother.”
“Thank you.” Lydia’s eyes closed, and she moaned softly.
Marsali took up the candle and hurried through the connecting door. Lady Cosgrove lay upon her bed, unnaturally still and silent. Marsali stepped closer, her heart pounding.
Please don’t let her be dead. Lydia wasn’t strong enough for that. She needed her mother. As did I. Marsali held the candle up over Lady Cosgrove and gave a start as her face came into view. Her appearance was frightening— her skin appeared shriveled, her eye sockets collapsed, her complexion grey. She looked nothing like the woman Marsali had seen at breakfast four days ago.
“Lady Cosgrove?” Marsali summoned her courage and stepped closer to the bed, though what she really wished to do was flee. When Lady Cosgrove did not respond, Marsali bent closer and held a hand over the woman’s mouth, letting out her own breath of relief when she felt Lady Cosgrove’s weak one.
Not dead. Not yet. Nor will she be. Lady Cosgrove had not been ill until a few days ago when their voyage began, so she could not be that ill yet. Could she? Marsali set the candle on the washstand and rolled up the sleeves of her nightgown, prepared to go to work. Though two years had passed, her mother’s illness and death were still fresh in her mind. I’ll not let Lydia suffer as I have.
Marsali retrieved a cloth from the side of the basin and dipped it into the tepid water. She held it over the bowl and wrung it out, nearly knocking over a before-unnoticed narrow brown bottle at the back of the stand.
She picked it up and studied it, wishing it had a label. This might be the only medicine she had to work with. But what is it? Marsali put the washcloth down, then removed the stopper, leaned forward, and sniffed.
The faint smell of garlic wafted from the open bottle. Marsali jerked her head back, and the bottle slipped from her hand, shattering as it hit the wood floor. Shards of glass flew about the room, but Marsali paid them no notice.
Impossible. I only imagined…
Leaning over the bed, she pressed her hands into the mattress and her face close to Lady Cosgrove’s. The garlic smell was stronger here, present with each shuddering breath she took.
No! Marsali tried to stand but nearly fell, bumping the table and causing the washbasin to tip precariously. Still holding the stopper in her other hand, she rushed from the room to Lydia’s bedside.
“Is this the tonic you drank?” Marsali thrust the cork into Lydia’s line of vision. “That bottle on your mother’s washstand— did you drink from it?”
Lydia’s head moved up and down against the pillow. “We were cheated. It doesn’t work. Even when you take twice the dosage.”
“Twice?” Marsali tried to keep the panic from her voice. “How much did you drink?”
Instead of answering, Lydia hung her head over the side of the bed and vomited.
“It hurts,” she moaned. “So very badly.” The blanket fell back as she drew her knees up to her chest. “Help me.”
Marsali held Lydia’s hair aside and tried not to panic.
It cannot have been for long. They were not ill just a few days ago. Lydia was not ill yesterday. Marsali stood abruptly, knowing she needed help. The captain had not mentioned a ship’s doctor, but surely there had to be one. And surely he would know what to do to assist Lydia and her mother. “I’ll return as quickly as I can. I’m going to get help.”
Lydia leaned over the side of the bed, retching into the pail once more.
“That’s good,” Marsali told her. “Get it all out.” Every last drop. Except she knew better. If what she suspected was right, assisting Lydia and her mother would not be so simple.
Loud pounding upon his door wrenched Christopher from a deep sleep. The room was dark, but he was on his feet at once, crouched and ready to do battle with whomever it was— debt collectors after his father or an undesirable suitor after his sisters.
“Mr. Thatcher.” The voice on the other side of the door sounded familiar, and when it came again a second time, Christopher’s surroundings and circumstances rushed back as he came fully awake. He stumbled through the darkness and pulled open the door.
Miss Abbott stood in the hall, wearing a nightgown and holding a candle in one trembling, bleeding hand.
“Lady Cosgrove and Lydia are ill,” she blurted. “Find the ship’s doctor and bring him to their rooms.” She whirled away and took one step before he caught her arm.
“You’re hurt.” He stared at her injured hand and noticed her start as she did the same. He released her arm and took the candle from her, setting it on the table behind them. Gently he took her hand, turning it over so her palm faced up. She opened her fingers, and he saw a jagged line of blood running across her palm.
“The bottle,” she murmured, then opened her other hand, revealing a cork stopper.
“Was the bottle this went with broken?” Christopher used the sleeve of his nightshirt to carefully wipe her palm.
Miss Abbott shook her head. “I dropped it. The glass went everywhere.” She tugged away from his grasp and retrieved the candle, holding it in front of her with care.
He followed her gaze downward to her bare ankles and feet peeking out beneath the hem of her nightgown. “Your feet are cut as well.”
Her hand trembled, and the candle tilted precariously. “Bring a broom, too,” she said, turning from him. “Only hurry. Lady Cosgrove and Lydia are gravely ill.” Heedless of her injuries, she ran the length of the room to their cabin. Christopher did not follow but strode to the captain’s quarters and pounded upon his door.
When it opened, he faced a bleary-eyed captain. “Lady and Miss Cosgrove are both very ill. Is there a ship’s doctor?”
“Tenney, the cook, does our doctoring.” The captain rubbed at his eyes. “But there isn’t anything to be done for seasickness, aside from reaching land, that is. And even we’re not that fast. Only been at sea four days,” he muttered. “Can’t expect—”
“Miss Abbott seems to think their illness quite serious,” Christopher interrupted. “But I am sorry to have disturbed you. I simply guessed that your two wealthiest, more prominent passengers being ill might be of concern.”
“It is. It is.” The captain ran a hand through his thinning hair, already standing on end. “I’ll come with you to get Tenney. He’ll not take well to be awoken in the dead of night either. Just a moment.” Captain Gower withdrew into his cabin and shut the door. Christopher paced in front of it, glancing repeatedly down the length of the saloon toward the faint light coming from the doorway at the far end.
Are they only seasick? If so, Miss Abbott seemed to be overreacting. And she didn’t seem the type prone to overreacting about anything. She was perhaps the most levelheaded female he’d ever become acquainted with. She’d dealt with whatever circumstances had prevented her from arriving at the ship on time, and she’d endured the captain’s rebuke, Lady Cosgrove’s censure, and the criticism of the medical inspector with checked emotions. Even when receiving news about the perilous circumstances awaiting her, she had remained calm and had not been given to hysterics or anything resembling such, as many other women would have been.
But tonight, something has shaken her. Miss Ab
bott had not even realized she was hurt until he’d pointed it out. And the way she was trembling…
Captain Gower’s door opened once more, and he emerged from his cabin. Together they went to the kitchen and approached the cook, who was snoring deeply in his hammock.
“Get up, Tenney. We’ve need of your doctoring.”
Tenney grunted and turned his face aside.
The captain gave his hammock a hard push. “Up, you lout. That was an order. Come tend to the passengers, or I’ll have you keelhauled.”
One of Tenney’s eyes opened slowly. “You’d sooner cut your arm off and feed it to sharks than punish one of us like that. What gives, Captain?”
“Lady Cosgrove and her daughter are ill. Miss Abbott and Mr. Thatcher seem to think it’s serious.”
Christopher nodded his agreement, trusting Miss Abbott’s judgment.
“Be a good medical officer and have a look at our patients, will you?” the captain cajoled.
Tenney sat up and swung his legs over the side of hammock. “All ye had to do was ask.” He yawned as he jumped down. “That lot’s been trouble since they set foot on this ship. If seasickness has rendered them unable to speak or leave their beds, I can only think it a blessing for the rest of us.”
“You’ll not think it good when our highest-paying passengers tell their friends what a miserable voyage they had and we’re both without a ship and employment.” Captain Gower led the way from the kitchen to the saloon. “Like them or not, we’ve got to see that they are as comfortable as possible.”
“Aye, Cap’n.” Tenney stopped long enough to locate a beat-up black leather bag that looked like it might once have belonged to a physician— decades ago. Christopher grabbed a broom and followed them out of the kitchen and down to Lady Cosgrove’s cabin, though he supposed there wasn’t much he could do for the ladies and might have gone back to bed.
But if the Captain and Mr. Tenney were to be busy attending Lady Cosgrove and her daughter, who would see to Miss Abbott’s injuries? Christopher’s concern was for her.
The smell hit him before they reached the room, and Christopher wondered that he’d not noticed it earlier today. Tenney swore under his breath, and the captain added similar sentiments. Christopher held his shirtsleeve to his nose as he entered the room behind them.
Miss Abbott sat at Miss Cosgrove’s side, whispering soothing words and holding Miss Cosgrove’s hair while the young woman leaned over the side of the bed attempting to empty even more contents from her stomach into an already filled bucket.
“Seasickness. Nothing to be done for them.” Tenney took a step back, his heel pressing onto Christopher’s toe.
“It’s not just seasickness.” Miss Abbott stood and faced them. “I’ve reason to believe it’s worse. There was a bottle— a tonic they’d been taking.”
“Go on,” the captain said. Christopher couldn’t be certain, but he thought he saw the briefest look of alarm flit across the captain’s usually composed features.
Miss Abbott held out the cork. “Smell it.”
Tenney took it and passed it beneath his nose before handing it to the captain. “Garlic. So what? Lots of folks think that’s a cure for many ailments.”
“I can’t smell it,” the captain said. “It’s a wonder either of you can with the stench in here.” His frown grew severe as his gaze traveled the room. Christopher could almost imagine the thoughts going through the captain’s mind about any part of his beloved ship being treated thusly.
“It’s not strong enough to be pure garlic,” Miss Abbott said. “But arsenic, when it has been heated— as when it is mixed into a liquid— gives off a similar aroma.” She took the stopper from the captain. “This was in a bottle in Lady Cosgrove’s room. Lydia said a peddler at the wharf sold it to them and promised it would cure seasickness. I think it has done the opposite and made them ill— to the point that—” she lowered her voice— “Lady Cosgrove may be near death.”
“Where at the wharf, exactly?” Captain Gower asked. Christopher was certain he wasn’t mistaking the alarm on the captain’s face.
“Near the largest shops. A man outside told us we would need it on your ship.” Miss Cosgrove’s voice was hoarse. Captain Gower stepped farther into the room and came near her bedside.
“Which shops? Do you remember their names? When did you purchase it?”
“Six—” Miss Cosgrove attempted to hold up the right number of fingers— “days ago. Just before we boarded. The peddler said you’d encouraged him to sell the tonic. Said to tell you Littleton was the best, and the rest—”
“Are not long for this world.” Captain Gower swore. “Littleton. I might have known.”
“Who is Littleton?” Christopher asked.
“Our competition. He runs the Liverpool office of the Black Ball shipping line.” Captain Gower ran a hand through his hair once more, so that it stood up even straighter. His eyes were no longer bleary with sleep but wide and alarmed. “He threatened to do something to ruin our chances of success, but I didn’t think he’d go so far as to poison passengers.”
“Don’t be so certain about all that yet, Cap’n. It could be the ladies just don’t take to the sea. Or it could be someone else has harmed them.” Tenney marched over to Miss Abbott. “Where is this bottle now, and how would you be knowing so much about arsenic?”
“She dropped it and it broke,” Christopher said, not liking Tenney’s accusatory tone. “Miss Abbott needs tending to as well. Both her hand and her feet are cut.”
Captain Gower and Mr. Tenney appeared to take note of this as Miss Cosgrove began another round of retching and Miss Abbott returned to her side to assist her.
“It hurts so. Make it stop.” Miss Cosgrove began thrashing about in her bed, one bare leg kicking the covers aside and her arms flung wide as her head whipped back and forth on the pillow.
“This reaction is not something caused by an aversion to the sea,” Miss Abbott insisted as she leaned over the bed, trying to control and comfort Miss Cosgrove.
Christopher pushed past the other men and went to her side. He covered Miss Cosgrove and held the blanket down.
Miss Abbott turned back to the captain and Mr. Tenney, her eyes pleading. “You must help them. Please.”
“You’ve not answered my question.” Tenney stood with arms crossed, his battered bag dangling from one hand. “Why might you be familiar with arsenic? And if that is what they’ve taken, who’s to say it wasn’t you who gave it to them?”
“That’s enough.” Captain Gower’s voice was sharp.
Christopher noticed Miss Abbott’s hands trembling again.
“I am familiar with arsenic and its effects—” she drew in a shaky breath as she looked up at them— “because my mother died from taking it.”
“I think all of the glass is out now.” Mr. Thatcher brushed his fingers over Marsali’s upturned palm as it rested on the table.
“Thank you,” she murmured, feeling strangely calm and almost mesmerized by his gentle touch.
“Don’t thank me yet,” he warned, reaching for a bottle and a rag, also on the table. “This part is going to hurt.”
Marsali watched as he poured alcohol onto the cloth.
“My sister’s husband studied medicine— and used this treatment on me when I had an accident with an ax a few months back. It hurt like the devil, but as Samuel said, ‘A bit of fire up front, and you won’t have any later on.’ Ready?”
She nodded. “Go ahead.”
Still he hesitated. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. Just please hurry.” She glanced over her shoulder. “I shouldn’t be gone long. Lydia may wake and need me.”
“You’ve been tending her for over three hours— three of the longest hours of my life, and I wasn’t doing much good at all.”
“Nonsense,” Marsali said. “You swept and cleaned the room and helped Miss Cosgrove through the worst of her convulsions.” And kept me company through it all. Marsali hadn’t
expected him to stay with her but had somehow known that he would. Even Mr. Tenney had returned to bed after an hour or so, declaring that there was nothing more to be done but to wait it out.
“Ready?” Mr. Thatcher asked once more.
“Yes.”
He pressed the cloth to her hand, and Marsali sucked in a breath at the sting that followed. “I think the glass felt better.”
He gave her a lopsided grin. “I warned you.”
She nodded and looked away lest he catch her eyes watering.
“Following such torturous treatment, this doctor’s orders are for you to get some rest and let Murphy care for Miss Cosgrove.” Mr. Thatcher used his free hand to reach for some strips of cloth. “Between my keeping you up late to look at the stars and then Miss Cosgrove summoning you, you can’t have had more than an hour or two of sleep.”
“But think of poor Mr. Murphy.” Marsali sighed. “I cannot ask him to stay with the ladies a moment longer than necessary. I do not imagine he is particularly enjoying that duty.”
“He might be.” Mr. Thatcher’s mouth quirked. “Who’s to say he’s not using the time to clean out his ears or scrub between his toes? He seemed rather fastidious about his grooming the other night while keeping an eye on you. And didn’t you say he’d been cleaning his teeth during last night’s watch?”
“So he was.” In spite of her weariness, the pain in her hand, and the gravity of the situation, she felt herself returning Mr. Thatcher’s smile. Each time she was with him he had a way of making her feel better, no matter what her difficulty. “But I should hurry. Aside from Mr. Murphy and me, there’s no one else to tend Lydia and her mother. And Mr. Murphy has other duties. Mr. Tenney has to be in the kitchen— the crew must eat if they are to keep this ship going— and besides, there are no other women. In their present states, Lady Cosgrove and Lydia should not be seen by anyone but me.”
“I doubt very much that it matters— in their present state,” Mr. Thatcher said. “And you’ve forgotten one other person who is and will continue to be able to help— me.”
Marrying Christopher (A Hearthfire Romance Book 3) Page 13
