Lord Iverbrook's Heir

by Carola Dunn

  “Oh miss, is he going to die?”

  “I don’t know what is wrong with him, Doris. We must put our trust in God and in my mother’s skill. Hurry now. Bannister, are you feeling stronger?”

  “Yes, Miss Selena. It’s right sorry I am to be another trouble to you, when I know Mrs. Finnegan won’t be much help neither. It was just the shock.”

  “Of course. I rely on you to see that the servants do all that is necessary. Tom, tell me what happened.”

  Tom Arbuckle was standing by the door, twisting his tweed cap in his hands.

  “Terrible it were, miss,” he said. “We drove down the lane—his lordship were driving, that is, but I could see as his mind weren’t on it. Then I seen the little tyke, all covered with mud, which ain’t to be wondered at, only he walked kind of funny, like he couldn’t see where he were going. So we stopped and my lord jumps down and tells me to turn the carriage, the which I does, and all the time I can hear Master Peter hollering. And my lord gets him in the carriage and says he’s ate poison berries, drive like the devil. Begging your pardon, miss. So I does, and if the nipper up and dies I’ll always think I could of drove faster.”

  Selena laid her hand on his arm. “Don’t say that, Tom. You did your best and I thank you for it. I expect his lordship’s horses need your care. Will you see to them?”

  “O’course, miss, and bless you. His lordship’s hard hit, miss. I never seen him look like that.”

  “Thank you, Tom.” As Selena turned to go to the stillroom, she recalled Hugh’s white, agonised face. She had scarcely noticed it before, her attention concentrated on Peter. Yes, his lordship was hard hit. She had not supposed him to have so much sensibility.

  Poison berries, Tom said. The stains about Peter’s mouth were purple. That could be from blackberries, but she shuddered at the thought of the alternative: deadly nightshade!

  The door of the stillroom was open. She stood there a moment, forcing herself to remain calm. Her mother was stirring a blackish powder into a glass of water. Iverbrook sat on the room’s only chair, holding Peter in his lap, but when the boy saw her he slid down and ran to her, talking excitedly. His voice was slurred and she could not make out his words. She picked him up and sat down on the chair, vacated by the viscount.

  “It’s belladonna, Selena,” said her mother, voice shaking but hands as steady as ever. “Nightshade, deadly nightshade. He had some berries in his hand. The first thing is to bring it up. Black mustard seed to make him vomit. You hold him, keep him still, while I make him drink it. Hugh, there’s a basin under the table. Come, Peterkin, drink this for Grandmama, like a good boy.”

  Peter took a sip.

  “It tastes nasty,” he said clearly, then stiffened, his arms and legs flailing wildly. One arm escaped from Selena’s grasp and knocked the glass from Lady Whitton’s hand. It smashed on the floor and she stood for a moment looking blankly at the shards of glass and the wet spot on her skirt.

  Iverbrook put his arm round her shoulders. “I shall mix some more," he said. “Tell me exactly what to do.”

  The seizure weakened Peter and he drank the second potion docilely.

  Its effect was immediate and Iverbrook was only just in time with the basin.

  As the worst of the retching passed, the child lay back limply in his aunt’s arms. Lady Whitton felt his forehead.

  “Another dose, Hugh. I will prepare willowbark for the fever and powdered charcoal to absorb the poison.” The sound of her own voice steadied her. She took down several jars and began to pound and stir their contents in her mortar. “Centaury as a stimulant, and some say vinegar is efficacious against belladonna. He must be kept warm."

  Selena unbuttoned his wet coat and took it off. She had his shirt half off when Iverbrook approached with the second dose of mustard and water. Peter began to struggle again.

  “I won’t! I won't! It makes me hurt in my middle. Don’t make me, Aunt Sena. I’ll be a good boy, I won't eat any more berries.”

  “Peter, be still!” said Iverbrook sternly. “This is no way for a gentleman to behave. Drink!”

  Cowed, he obeyed, and the dreadful spasms began again. They so exhausted him that he swallowed without protest the murky liquid his grandmother next pressed upon him. Iverbrook stripped off the rest of his damp clothes, wrapped him in his own coat and, hugging him close, looked enquiringly at Lady Whitton.

  “To bed?”

  “To bed.”

  “Mama, you look worn to the bone. Hugh and Nurse will settle Peter. You come and lie down and tell me just what we must do for him, and what to watch for. I’ll join you shortly, Iverbrook.”

  The viscount carried his slight burden up the stairs. He was half way up the second flight when Peter twisted in his arms and cried out.

  “I’m stuck, Auntie Dee! I can’t get down. You’ll get stuck too if you climb up. Help me! I’m going to fall!”

  “It’s all right, Peter. Hush. I shan’t let you fall. You’re quite safe.”

  “You’re not Mr. Russell. Go away. Mr. Russell will help me down. Auntie Dee, come quick!” His words began to slur again, and he lapsed into lethargy.

  Mrs. Finnegan had his nightshirt warming by the fire. A tiny, wrinkled old woman, she started up as Iverbrook entered the nursery. Between them they quickly put him to bed. Nurse tucked him in and felt his flushed forehead.

  “Oh my dear!” she moaned. “My poor precious lamb!”

  Peter muttered and opened his eyes.

  “You promised, Aunt Sena. You said I can go with you to see the lambs. But Leo is turning into a sheep! I can’t ride a sheep. Leo, stop it! You’re not a sheep, you’re a pony. Uncle Hugh, don’t let Leo turn into a sheep. Please! If he gets all woolly, he won’t be a gentleman’s horse when he’s growed up.”

  Mrs. Finnegan sank onto a chair, crossed herself, and flung her apron over her head.

  “My baby’s lost his mind!” she wailed, rocking back and forth.

  “You have lost yours, woman!” said Iverbrook harshly. “Peter, Peter, Uncle Hugh won’t let Leo turn into a sheep, I promise. You must get well quick, for he is waiting to take you for a ride.”

  “Leo’s waiting. I have to go.” Peter strained to sit up. “Jem says you must never keep a horse waiting. Let me go. Let me go! I’m so thirsty.”

  Iverbrook looked around helplessly. Not even an empty cup met his eye. The old woman was sniffling to herself beneath the apron and it seemed useless to ask her for help, nor would he leave the child alone with her. Selena seemed to have a lot of incompetent servants, he thought angrily. Still she had explained her bailiff to him, and doubtless she had reasons as good for employing the others. In general, the household ran perfectly smoothly.

  But now Peter was crying out for a drink and there was none in sight.

  Selena came in.

  “How is he, Hugh?” she asked, casting an exasperated glance at Nurse.

  “Hallucinating again, and very thirsty. He’s so hot, Selena. Must we keep him covered?”

  “Mama says to keep him warm. He is to drink as much as we can persuade him to, and I’m sure we might bathe his forehead. I shall fetch barleywater, and a cooling lotion for his head. Can you manage alone here?”

  “Yes, but hurry back. I am an unpractised sickroom attendant.”

  “You have contrived to admiration so far. I’ll be back in no time.”

  Selena hurried down to the kitchen, where Cook, imperturbable as ever, had barleywater ready. Polly was hovering there, so Selena asked after Mrs. Tooting.

  "Me and Mr. Bannister took her to her chamber, miss, and I give her the medicine like my lady done last time. She’s much better now. How’s Master Peter, miss?”

  “Much the same, I fear. Bless you both. What should I do without you?”

  “Oh miss!” Polly crimsoned and her eyes filled with tears. Cook grunted and turned back to her stove.

  "Polly, since you were so handy with Mrs. Tooting’s physic, can you find me the lovage and ros
emary lotion, and bring it to the nursery? I must take Peter his drink.”

  “Oh yes, miss. I know where my lady keeps it. I’ll get it right away.”

  Selena sped back up the stairs. She found the viscount sitting by the bed, holding Peter’s hand, his eyes fixed on the small, hot face. Peter lay motionless.

  “He is in a stupor,” said Iverbrook. "At least, it does not seem to me like a natural sleep.”

  “We must rouse him to drink. Feel how dry his skin is! Peter, here is some barleywater Cook made specially for you. Wake up, darling. It will make you feel better.”

  The child half opened his eyes and reached out weakly. Iverbrook raised his shoulders and Selena held the cup to his lips. He gulped thirstily till it was all gone, but would not take more. His uncle laid him down and covered him carefully with the blue counterpane.

  “What now?”

  “Polly is bringing some lotion which will make him feel cooler, I hope. Finny . . . oh, she is gone!”

  “I sent her away.

  “I hope you were not too harsh with her. She is not a great deal of help in sickness, and Mama always cared for us when we were ill, but she has so many other good qualities. We all love her dearly, Peter too.”

  “At all events, she is not needed while you and I are here. Is there nothing else we can do for him?”

  “He must drink some more in a while, and Mama will bring him another draught when it is time for him to take it. Patience is often the hardest part of nursing.”

  “Is Lady Whitton recovered from the shock? How I admire her! She was plainly much shaken, yet she had the remedy to hand in a moment.”

  “How else should she act? If there is something one can do, one does it. But of a sudden she looked so old. Is it not painful to watch one’s parents age?”

  The viscount thought of his mother, who had not noticeably changed since he could remember, and who had fallen into hysterics if one of her sons appeared with a scraped knee or a bloody nose.

  “Is she well?”

  “I gave her her own sedative tea and made her promise to stay abed for two hours. I shall call her if anything changes in the meantime. Oh, here is Polly. Thank you, child. He is resting quietly now.”

  The maid curtseyed and tiptoed out. Selena poured a little of the lotion onto her handkerchief and a fresh herbal scent filled the air. She wiped Peter’s face gently.

  “If nothing else, it is cleaning off the mud,” said Iverbrook, trying for a light tone.

  “Yes, and even the purple stains are fading a little.”

  All too soon there was nothing left to do but wait. Peter lay alarmingly still, with only bouts of muttering to suggest that the hallucinations continued. Selena and Iverbrook sat on either side of the bed, drained, yet alert to any change in his condition.

  “There was a note inside the letter,” said Selena, after a long silence. “I found it later. From a James Goodenough; one of Hubble’s clerks, I suppose? It said you knew nothing of the lawsuit.”

  “It’s not important.”

  “No, but I’m sorry."

  He looked at her, saw a glint of tears in her eyes, and stretched his hand across the narrow bed between them. She clasped it briefly, felt forgiven, felt the warmth of his strong fingers renewing her energy.

  “Time for barleywater,” she said.

  Delia burst into the room, her face tearstained.

  “It’s all my fault!” she wailed. “If only I’d let him come with us!”

  “Hush!” said Selena sharply. “Of course it is not your fault, little nodcock.” She hugged her sister tight. “But if you want to help, I wish that you will look after Mama and see that the household does not come to a standstill. And ask Cook to prepare some luncheon, for I declare I am positively famished.”

  After a few more words and a peep at Peter, Delia went away cheered and reassured.

  “I had not thought I could touch a morsel,” said Iverbrook, pouring barleywater, “but since you mentioned luncheon, I find I am sharp-set after all.”

  “I only said that to give Delia something to do,” Selena confessed, “but I too am suddenly ravenous. Come, little boy, let me help you sit up. Uncle Hugh has a drink for you."

  Peter peered at her drowsily; his eyes were still dilated, his skin hot to the touch. His pulse seemed to have slowed, but it was also weaker so that was no comfort. He drank gluttonously, liquid dribbling from the corners of his mouth. There was no sign of perspiration, and as Selena laid his limp form down again she began to despair.

  Luncheon arrived, and they both found they were not as hungry as they had imagined.

  “Thank heaven Cook is not temperamental,” said Selena as Polly carried out a tray of barely touched food. “I think I will go and ask Mama for the medicine, Hugh, unless you wish to go?”

  “I ought to have a word with Tom, perhaps. You don’t mind staying here alone? I’ll be as quick as I can.”

  “I am sure you need to stretch your legs. A sickroom is no place for a gentleman. Indeed, you have more than exceeded the bounds of duty, and Mama or Delia can keep me company now.

  He took both her hands in his and smiled at her lovingly.

  “It is not a matter of duty. A gentleman has as much right here as a young girl or an elderly lady, if you will have me. Peter needs both aunt and uncle.”

  She looked up at him, trying to read his eyes. They baffled her. She dropped her gaze to his mud-smeared neckcloth, then turned away as he released her hands.

  “Yes, and also his medicine.”

  “I’m on my way.” He bowed.

  He met Lady Whitton on the stairs, carrying a vial full of a most unappetising grey-green liquid. He almost turned back to watch the effect of the draught, but it was already mid-afternoon, and Tom must be on his way. If Peter died, the lawsuit begun by the unscrupulous Hubble would be irrelevant. That alternative was unthinkable. Peter would survive and the suit must be stopped.

  In the library he wrote a quick note to his new lawyer. Crowe was the best person to deal with the matter. As an afterthought he added a commendation of one James Goodenough, with a suggestion that Mr. Crowe might look into hiring the young man next time he found himself in need of an honest clerk.

  Tom Arbuckle was in the kitchen, talking quietly and seriously with Cook. He jumped to his feet, took the letter, and listened to his instructions.

  “Be back termorrer evening, God willing, m’lord,” he said. “Don’t let the little master die.”

  He kissed Cook good-bye and was off.

  Iverbrook pretended not to notice. He was about to leave when Bannister entered, sighing heavily.

  “Summun ought to rescue poor Miss Delia from the Bart, Cook,” said the butler. “It’s a sin and a shame the way he . . . Oh, I beg your pardon, my lord. I didn’t see your lordship.”

  “Nor should I be intruding on your domain, Bannister, only with the house all at sixes and sevens I did not want to disrupt things further when I needed Tom. Where are Miss Delia and, er, the Bart? Devil take him, I’d forgot the man existed!”

  “In the drawing room, my lord. And he’s telling her dreadful stories of people as died of poison fruit and snakes and such in the Indies. It sounds like a very dangerous place,” he said severely, adding, “How’s the lad, my lord?”

  “No change. Lady Whitton is physicking him now. I’ll try and rescue Miss Delia before I go up again.”

  Iverbrook had just reached the drawing room when the front door bell rang. He heard Bannister’s hurrying steps and turned back to help the butler dissuade any visitors from entering.

  The door swung open to reveal a liveried groom. Beyond him in the drive stood an elegant landau, from which emerged a vision of loveliness, clad in rose pink.

  “Good God!” said his lordship. “Go away, Bel!”

  Chapter 11

  Unperturbed by the viscount’s hostility, Mrs. Parcott trod daintily up the steps, leaving Lady Gant to struggle out of the carriage behind her.


  “Good day, Iverbrook. I see your manners are become as rustic as your attire.” She looked with disfavour at his besmirched coat, then smiled sweetly as her mother panted up beside her. “I think you have not met Mama, Iverbrook. Mama, this is Lord Iverbrook who, I must suppose, is visiting the Whittons. Iverbrook, my mother, Lady Gant.”

  “La, sir, I have been hearing about you forever, I declare. Such a good friend as you have been to my poor, widowed little girl,” simpered her ladyship.

  The viscount was forced to bow over her pudgy hand with a semblance of politeness, but he shot a darkling glance at Amabel.

  “I fear you are arrived at an inopportune moment, ma’am,” he said. "There is sickness in the house.” He sensed Bannister standing firm behind him, barring the way.

  Lady Gant began to splutter apologies, condolences, and excuses in equal measure, and turned to go. Her daughter was not so easily ousted.

  "We are not afraid of illness, are we, Mama?” she said brightly. “Lady Whitton will be glad of a distraction from her cares, I vow. La, it is our duty to visit the sick, is it not?”

  Negating Iverbrook’s and Bannister’s efforts to stop her by simply ignoring them, she swept into the hall.

  The viscount saw that the butler was about to essay a final protest. He shook his head infinitesimally and jerked it towards the drawing room. An idea had come to him for killing two birds with one stone, and from the light in Bannister’s eye he saw that the elderly man had understood him.

  Lady Gant and Mrs. Parcott were ushered into the drawing room. Delia made a despairing face at Iverbrook and curtseyed to the visitors.

  She moved to stand beside him as Sir Aubrey made his bow and began a flowery speech of welcome.

  “Mama said I must keep Cousin Aubrey occupied,” she whispered.

  “No longer necessary,” he whispered back, then said aloud, “Delia, your mother was looking for you not five minutes since.”

  “I’ll go at once,” said Delia obediently, twinkling at him.