"She has a very high fever which runs cold and hot. And coughs rack her poor body. She has lost so much weight, she is now reduced to n-nothing."
Zeena closed her eyes wearily. “I have tried to nurse Georgie, hoping that perhaps my constant presence would somehow make her improve. We are very close, you see, though fifteen years separate us."
While her companion was silent, Serenity mulled over her words. Deep blue smudges under the eyes marred Zeena's delicate complexion. She obviously didn't care that nursing was taking a toll on her looks. More substance than fluff in this little one.
What about the sister's symptoms? Could be pneumonia. Could be tuberculosis—although tuberculosis would be easy for these doctors to diagnose. If she suffered from bacterial pneumonia, all Georgiana would need was antibiotics. Serenity did bring some penicillin with her, but what about meddling with history? Suppose the woman was meant to die?
Absorbed with these thoughts, she bit her lip, almost drawing blood. Then, underneath her arm, Zeena trembled, lost in her own unhappiness.
That decided it for Serenity. She would do it. She would to give Georgiana the medicine. After all, the experts said time was inflexible. Whatever was meant to happen, would happen. Well, Serenity would put it to the test. Worth a try, for Georgiana and Zeena's sakes.
Serenity took the plunge. “Lady Zeena, I can't say for certain, but I have something that might help your sister. If I could see her?"
The words took a second to register. Then Zeena jumped out of her chair and pulled up Serenity's arm—her uninjured right arm, fortunately. “Oh, this is splendid,” she exclaimed, obviously eager to believe in miracles. “Come with me, Mrs. Steele. You must meet my mother. She is in the next room. There is not a moment to lose!"
Serenity gestured to Maggie to wait until she returned from her impromptu meeting. Then without a warning, Zeena literally towed Serenity across the Pump Room floor.
* * * *
The Marchioness of Rotterham, Sylvia Wycliffe, sat with two of her bosom friends, commenting on the coldness of the February weather. Not that she cared a whit about the weather, but Lady Rotterham was of the school that believed revealing one's true feelings was decidedly bourgeoisie.
Truth be told, she was horribly anxious about her middle daughter, Georgiana. But after two weeks shut inside the fashionable Bath resort townhouse, Lady Rotterham noticed the decline of her youngest daughter's health. Zeena's face blanched newly pale and the skin around her eyes hung heavy. That was why the Marchioness ordered Zeena to accompany her to the Grand Pump Room. The child needed a change of scenery.
Sylvia fluttered a jewel-encrusted fan, displacing the violence of her feelings. She could not take a chance and lose Zeena, as well as Georgiana.
The Marchioness was proud of all her offspring, having produced her first child at the tender age of nineteen. Being in a whimsical state of mind, she named her daughter Amaryllis, “A” for the first born. The Marquess allowed her to indulge her fancy, only demanding that his male offspring be christened with a family name. The following year, she gave birth to a son and heir. She regretted she could not give him a name that started with “B,” but Lord Rotterham would not sway from his decision. However, Nicholas James Edward Basil Wycliffe, the Earl of Brockton, future Marquess of Rotterham, could hold her responsible for his fourth given name: Basil.
Then tragedy struck in the ensuing years—one miscarriage and one still-birth—both boys. When, at age twenty-three, Sylvia delivered a healthy baby girl, she dismissed her preoccupation with the alphabet, and named her child Georgiana, in honor of the king.
The Marchioness had been content with the number of children allotted her. But, fifteen years after Georgiana, she learned she was with child again. Rather embarrassing at the advanced age of eight and thirty to have to go through the ordeal of pregnancy. After her youngest made her appearance into the world, Sylvia reverted to her superstitious ways, naming the child Zeena, to signal the end of her fecundity.
Lady Rotterham quietly loved her children and could be forgiven for showing a slight preference for her only son. But now, her thoughts focused on her middle daughter. The Marchioness knew her eyes were red-rimmed; she believed the widowed Lady Georgiana Trent would soon join her young husband in the hereafter. The doctors gave Georgiana no hope. Her wasted body only came alive when the coughing fits overtook it.
Sylvia made an effort to respond to one of her companion's sallies, pretending to laugh at the witticism. Perhaps it had been a bad idea to leave her daughter's bedside. Preparing to leave, she turned her head and spotted Zeena heading towards her, talking animatedly with a stranger.
What was this? Who was the tall woman? Another unknown? Had Zeena been taken in by yet another toad-eater?
The Marchioness silently condemned her daughter's propensity to attract inappropriate connections. She braced herself to depress the approaching woman.
But, stay. The woman looked respectable enough. The grey colors proclaimed her a widow in half-mourning. Her shining brown hair, pulled back into a loose bun, did little to hide the bruises on her forehead. The stylish muslin dress proclaimed wealth, but could not hide the fact that she was so slender. Nothing but skin and bones.
Like poor Georgiana.
That thought made Lady Rotterham cringe. She took her leave from her friends and met Zeena halfway into the sitting room.
"Mama! Mama! I must introduce you to Mrs. Steele,” began Zeena, her wan face flush with excitement. “She says she has something that might cure Georgiana!"
Before Sylvia had a chance to speak, Mrs. Steele forestalled her. “I'm sorry to intrude on you at this time, my lady. But Lady Zeena told me of your daughter's illness. There's a slight possibility that a medication I have in my possession might be able to help her."
Varying emotions coursed through the Marchioness’ veins. From outrage, to hope, to skepticism. Mrs. Steele did look concerned. But what motives prompted the woman's offer?
Mrs. Steele spread her hands apart, in a gesture of sincerity. “I assure you, my lady, I'm offering my assistance not out of hope for monetary gain but, well, Lady Zeena reminds me of my sister. I'd like to help."
The Marchioness made a quick decision. If her son Nicholas learned about her divulging family matters to a stranger, he would take her to task. But, if there was a chance, even a slight one, that Georgiana could be saved, Sylvia would bear her son's censure. It mattered not if the cure was sanctioned by London's Harley Street doctors, or Bath's Royal National Hospital practitioners. The cure could be a foul-smelling concoction made by village hags as far as she was concerned. Whether or not it cured Georgiana was the important issue at hand.
The Marchioness put aside her misgivings and took charge. “There is no time to lose. Mrs. Steele, you must come with us to see Georgiana immediately. The family is grateful for your help."
* * * *
On this, the third day of Serenity's assignment in Regency England, she found herself in a townhouse drawing room located on Bath's stately Royal Crescent. The room was small, cluttered with diverging styles of furniture that clashed with each other as sharply as the countries that created them.
Serenity sat at the end of an uncomfortable Egyptian couch. When she turned to the right she had the dubious pleasure of looking into a sphinx's eyes. Zeena rested upon a Grecian couch, and looked none too relaxed on the backless sofa. Evidently, this mix of furniture was one of the hazards of renting property.
Fingering the medicine bottle filled with penicillin, Serenity worried. Did she have the right to prescribe these pills to the sick woman? What if Georgiana had an allergic reaction?
The entrance of Zeena's mother was an appreciated interruption. “Georgiana is ready to see you now, Mrs. Steele,” the older woman said. “And I believe I have been remiss in introducing myself. I am Sylvia Wycliffe, the Marchioness of Rotterham."
A marchioness? Serenity gulped down hard. She hadn't dreamed of bumping into someone with that
exalted status. No wonder she felt ill-at-ease. Her behavior had better be convincing to this elegant, worldly-wise matron.
But what a stroke of luck to fall into such a high peeress’ company. And so soon.
After following the Marchioness to the sickroom, Serenity took stock of Georgiana Trent, a widowed baroness. She was an attractive woman, however, her illness made her haggard and listless. Contrary to her mother's insistence, she wasn't emaciated, but the flowing nightdress obviously was intended for a larger person. The woman's appearance validated her family's intense concern.
Georgiana raised a weary gaze and gave a weak nod at the introduction. Then she succumbed to a bout of coughing.
As Serenity examined Georgiana's now inert form, she again worried. Was she “playing God” with the young woman on the bed? That was a dilemma Axel Rhinehart could sympathize with. The baroness’ symptoms—pleuritic chest pain and fever—did resemble pneumonia, but what if she had an adverse reaction to the antibiotic? What if she ... died?
What if? What if? Serenity's head pounded. She had to take the chance and carry out her pledge to help.
Reaching into her reticule, she pulled out the unmarked medicine bottle containing twenty-one tiny, white pills. “Lady Trent, here are enough tablets for seven days. Please take one three times a day, until you finish all the medication."
Georgiana raised her head to drink water and swallow one pill. “Thank you, Mrs. Steele.” Then she fell back against the pillow, obviously exhausted by the effort.
Serenity motioned for Zeena and the Marchioness to move away from the bed. “You should see some improvement in your daughter after a day or so. If she complains of a skin rash or faintness, you must stop the medication. For now, we should let her rest."
Tiptoeing out of the bedroom, Serenity accompanied the Wycliffe women down the stairs. What an event-filled day! She was certainly ready to collect Maggie and return to the Swan Inn.
"Please, Mrs. Steele, you must have some refreshments with us,” Zeena pleaded.
Serenity looked at the Marchioness for confirmation. She didn't want to overstay her welcome.
"Yes, please do. You look in need of nourishment,” her hostess insisted.
"Well, just for a few minutes. I must be getting back.” Entering the drawing room, Serenity gingerly sat on the Egyptian couch.
As the Marchioness poured coffee, she coaxed, “Please help yourself to the teacakes, Mrs. Steele. They are Cook's specialty."
Miniature cakes pleasingly arranged on a silver platter were placed in front of Serenity. She allowed herself one of the treats. Almost like butter, it melted in her mouth. Delicious!
Zeena waited until Serenity finished the teacake, then unleashed her curiosity. “Do tell us where you procured those miniature, er, tablets, did you say? I believe I saw some letters inscribed on them."
Both mother and daughter gave Serenity their full attention. But what could she say? To stall for time, she stirred her coffee. “It's, ah, just an old folk remedy. Been around ages. Very effective, though. As I said, if the medicine takes, Lady Trent should notice an improvement in a day or two."
Then Serenity said a silent prayer for the penicillin to work. Please, God.
Tears piling up in her blue eyes, Zeena could not contain her feelings. “I thank you with all my heart, Mrs. Steele. Dear Georgie has had such a difficult time of it. Her husband passed on two years ago. Baby Vincent was only a few months old then."
The Marchioness also added her thanks. “I, too, feel a great weight lifted from my shoulders. I am so anticipating Georgiana's recovery. Poor Georgiana has had more than her share of sorrow. Vincent is such a sickly child."
"He is the heir, you know,” Zeena broke in. “Not only for Lord Trent. But for Nicholas as well."
At Serenity's questioning look, Zeena explained, “Nicholas is my brother. My father's only son—Lord Brockton. And, you must know, he is quite up there in years. Five and thirty to be exact. Never married. No intention of doing so, he tells us. Naturally, Vincent's health concerns us all."
"Zeena!” the Marchioness admonished. “I am sure our family's intimate affairs are boring Mrs. Steele to tears."
She signaled to a servant, ordering him to remove the remaining refreshments.
With regret, Serenity stood. Too bad she had to leave. The conversation was taking a very interesting turn. “Thank you again for the coffee, my lady. Might I check on Lady Trent's progress tomorrow?"
"By all means, please do. You must tell us all about yourself, Mrs. Steele. We know next to nothing about our Georgiana's savior."
The Marchioness’ voice rang sincere, as if she regretted her abruptness over her youngest child's wagging tongue. Perhaps she was trying to make amends.
Zeena accompanied Serenity to the door. “Do come tomorrow, Mrs. Steele. There is much I want to ask you. Things have been so tedious here in Bath—until today!” Her young face dimpled mischievously. It was obvious that, in the girl's mind, her sister was already on the road to recovery.
"I will,” Serenity promised. “I'll come around one o'clock."
Walking to the inn with Maggie, Serenity paid little attention to Bath's regal Royal Crescent. She was too busy thinking about topics for her monograph: Regency Society Revisited.
Chapter Five
When the Marchioness of Rotterham offered Serenity transportation to London, she had been glad to share the Wycliffes’ well-sprung carriage. The alternatives would have been traveling by the more common post chaise, or by the mail coach. The fashionable curricle meant luxury—nineteenth century style, but Serenity, unused to the constant pounding of horses’ hooves against dirt roads, gained a gigantic headache.
Warmed by a hot brick strategically placed under her blanket, Serenity massaged her throbbing temples. Thank goodness the trip would not last much longer. She glanced over at her companions, but no one else seemed discomforted by the nonstop jolting. Evidently, she wasn't as hearty as the Wycliffe ladies.
"Mrs. Steele, please, won't you tell us more about yourself?” Zeena, looking the picture of health, asked in her musical voice.
During Georgiana's recovery in Bath, Serenity had been able to deflect everyone's questions about the Steele background. But now, she could avoid them no longer. Giving her companions a brief description of her “hometown” Blanchland, Northumberland, she concluded her tale with how she became a widow eight months ago.
"That is so sad.” Tenderhearted Zeena dabbed at her eyes. “Do you have children?"
"No, no children."
Zeena and Georgiana tut-tutted on Nature's omission.
"But you are still so young, Mrs. Steele. I am confident that once we reach London, you shall be besieged with admirers. After you contract a suitable match, this childless state will be rectified as soon as possible. Children are such a comfort, is that not so, Mama?” ventured a pasty-faced Georgiana.
"Sometimes they are,” came the Marchioness’ enigmatic reply. Commanding her daughter to lie against the plush cushions, Lady Rotterham tucked a woolen scarf around the invalid's shoulders.
"Why did you insist on traveling so soon? With you almost at Death's door? Georgiana, I wonder where your common sense has gone!” her mother said tartly, shaking her near powder-white coiffure. The few remaining strands of color glistened gold in the afternoon light.
At fifty-five, the Marchioness was a very attractive woman.
Zeena gave her sister's blue-veined hand a squeeze. “She is just impatient to see the children again, Mama. Please do not be cross. They have been separated almost a month. You know how Georgie dotes on them."
After giving her sister a hug, Zeena tilted her head. “But there is no need to worry about them, Georgie. Not with Amaryllis looking after them. They are in excellent hands."
Turning to Serenity, Zeena explained, “Amaryllis, my eldest sister, is well-known for her love of children. She always boasts about her own three."
Georgiana returned the hug. “Dear,
dear, little Zeena!"
Such genuine family affection brought a smile to Serenity's face.
Zeena suddenly looked over at Serenity, a sparkle lighting up her eyes. “I think Georgie has a splendid idea. We must introduce Mrs. Steele to an eligible parti."
Parti? Serenity's aching head made it difficult to focus her thoughts. Oh, marriage partner. She didn't want to hurt the family's feelings but she'd have to squelch that female matchmaking tendency. “No, please, that's quite all right. No one can replace my dear, um, Gerald."
Lady Rotterham seemed upset at this turn in conversation. Her back stiffened to ramrod straightness and her blue eyes bulged from their sockets. Was she alarmed by her youngest child's suggestion?
Serenity pulled on her ear lobe. It wouldn't do for the Marchioness to become suspicious. Did she think “Mrs.” Steele had an ulterior motive for befriending the Wycliffe family?
To be truthful, Serenity did have a hidden agenda, but only to receive a few introductions to society members, that was all. Nothing alarming.
Lady Rotterham suddenly smiled. “Zeena, that is a excellent idea. We will take Mrs. Steele on our social rounds."
Yes! That was exactly what she wanted. But wait—the Marchioness continued speaking.
"As you make your debut in society, Zeena my sweet, we shall also sponsor Mrs. Steele. You two girls have completely different coloring so there is no danger of one eclipsing the other. By the end of the season, I shall be responsible for two marriages!” Lady Rotterham ended triumphantly.
Serenity's smile turned into a frown. She hated to disappoint the lady but.... “I'm afraid you don't understand, my lady. I do not want a husband. You see—"
"Bosh!” Georgiana and Zeena replied in unison.
Serenity swallowed hard. “I'm still in mourning for ... Gerald. I'm only visiting London to ... to.... “Heavens! She forgot her cover story. “To revive my spirits. You know, see the sights, go to some parties. Things like that.” She resisted the urge to wring her hands. “If you'd introduce me about as a friend, I'd be very grateful. But that's all. I'm not interested in any marriage-minded males. Please, do we agree?"
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