Suzanne made no comment as she began unwrapping the turban from Amber’s head. Amber closed her eyes, enjoying the release of pressure and wished it could take other tensions with it. If the Earl had been in town for some weeks, she could countenance pushing for a proposal on their ride tomorrow. As he had only been in town for three days, however, and this would be their first ride together, it was far too forward and might work against her by creating a wariness in him. She needed more time for him to fall in love with her and offer her a sincere proposal.
“Oh, Miss,” she heard Suzanne said, her voice heavy. Amber blinked her eyes open and looked first at Suzanne’s wide-eyed expression reflected in the mirror before looking at herself. Her gasp was audible as she gingerly lifted a hand to the front left portion of her head which had no hair at all. The patch above her ear that she had noted earlier in the evening had expanded, like wine spilled on a rug. The pale skin was smooth beneath her touch: warm, and completely . . . bald.
It can’t be, she said in her mind. She placed her hand over the offending portion as though to hide it and turned in her seat to see full clumps of hair at Suzanne’s feet. She looked at the portion of silk still in Suzanne’s hands and could see several stands of her hair woven into it as well.
“I was simply trying to brush out the tangles,” Suzanne said. “I do not know what—”
“You put the silk on too tight,” she accused her maid as her ears filled with a rushing sound. This had to be Suzanne’s fault, never mind that Helen had been collecting Amber’s fallen hair prior to Suzanne’s arrival. The maid had to bear responsibility. “You hate me, you have always hated me, and you are determined to ruin me!”
“Miss,” Suzanne said, sounding shocked as she took a step back, “I have naught but helped you all this time. I have—”
“You have rendered me an atrocity!” Amber yelled back, her rage overflowing her ability to reason. “Until you came, all was as it should be. Your attention to me has changed everything. Were you sent from the household of a rival? Have you conspired with a suitor whose attentions I have thwarted?”
Amber paused for breath as Suzanne cowered near the bed, her head hung so that Amber could not see her face. Amber did not hear the creak of a door hinge until it was too late. She snapped her head to the side in time to see Darra and her mother standing in the doorway, horror on their faces.
They stared at Amber for what should have been a breath, though Amber could not draw air as she took in the wide eyes of the interlopers. Their expressions finally brought her to herself, and she let out a strangled cry. Raising her hands to her head, she desperately searched for a hiding place and saw the open door of the wardrobe.
She ran to the space created between the open door and the wall and sank to the ground. The realization that her secret was no longer a secret pounded her mind like a hammer against stone.
“Leave us,” she heard her mother snap a moment before the door to the bedchamber closed. There was silence, and Amber curled over herself, covering her ragged head with her arms, unable to catch her breath due to her corset and gown. She heard the wardrobe door close, revealing her to the room, and she pulled even tighter to the corner, wishing she could disappear completely.
“Show yourself to me,” her mother commanded.
Amber shook her head. She could not do it. She could not bear to have them see her.
“Darra,” she heard her mother say a moment before Lady Marchent grabbed one of Amber’s arms, pulling it away from Amber’s head. A moment later, the softer touch of Darra’s hand on Amber’s other arm pulled it away as well. She tried to fight them, aching for her corner even as she was drawn to her feet and forced into the center of the room. Knowing she could not prevent their inspection, she covered her face with her hands and sobbed.
For some time her mother and Darra were silent, until Amber controlled her emotion enough to drop her hands and lift her swollen eyes to meet those of her mother’s, which looked at her with both shock and disgust.
“You stupid girl,” her mother said, each word falling like hot coals at Amber’s feet. “What have you done to yourself?”
Chapter 8
Amber sent her regrets by messenger to Lord Sunther first thing the next morning, claiming she was ill and could not ride out with him. She spent the rest of the day in her bedchamber with one of her mother’s ugly mobcaps on her head. Her mother did not appear until the afternoon when she followed a maid who carried in a tea tray. Lady Marchent did not stay long and instead simply relayed that Dr. Hankins would attend her in the morning, until then the household had been told Amber was ill and Suzanne had been sworn to secrecy. Amber was hungry for some encouragement, some hope, but it was misplaced. Her mother left her to her own company after only a few minutes. Amber pressed her face into the pillow and cried alone.
Dr. Hankins came to Amber’s bedchamber at ten o’clock Monday morning. He wasn’t an old man, perhaps not quite her mother’s age, even, and she could not take her eyes off the powdered wig he wore, a reminder of the style of her mother’s time as a debutante in King George’s court.
The extreme fashion that included wigs and hairpieces was outmoded when the French Revolution drew sharp attention to the extravagance of the aristocracy. France was not so far away from England for English noblemen and noblewomen to avoid taking note.
Amber had heard tell and seen portraits of face paints and full stays, hoop skirts, and heavy brocade fabrics of vibrant color—the court dress required of each debutante when she was presented, but avoided in every other venue. Amber had often felt grateful to live in an age of greater discretion that, she felt, allowed a woman’s more natural charms to show through the pretense of earlier fashions.
Now, however, with her natural charms threatened she wished for a powdered wig to hide her truth and perhaps face paint that could further hide her fear.
“I shall need you to remove the cap,” Dr. Hankins said, sitting down on the foot bench after Amber sat on her dressing table stool.
At the doctor’s request, Amber raised a hand, carefully expanded the cap, and lifted it off her head, mindful of pulling on the hair she had left. Several strands of hair fluttered into her lap.
The doctor made no reaction, for which she was grateful, and stood to cross over to her. She closed her eyes in hopes it would lessen her humiliation as he touched her hair, lifted the remaining tresses and making noises such as “Hmm,” and “Ah.” He began pulling on certain sections, and Amber bit her lip, not in pain but in fear he would loosen the strands still connected. She’d been so gentle of them herself, though it hadn’t seemed to make a difference. Lady Marchent stood just inside the door, standing silent sentry of the exchange.
“And you lose more hair daily?” Dr. Hankins asked, still inspecting.
“Hourly, it seems.” She swallowed the rising emotion and finally looked up when he stepped away. “What is to become of me? I fear I have contracted something severe.”
“What of the other hair about your person?” he asked, returning to his seat.
“Pardon?” she asked.
“I see that your eyebrows are mostly intact—what of the other hair? It is typical for all of a person’s skin to be covered in fine hair, you see. Surely you are aware of this.”
Amber nodded but was terribly embarrassed by his question. “I can’t say I’ve been particularly attentive.” Had he said her eyebrows were mostly intact?
“I should encourage you to be attentive, then.” Finally his eyes moved to her face and met her gaze. His expression was sympathetic, and she felt tears rise in her eyes at his genuine concern.
“Other than this symptom, are you experiencing any other discomfort?”
“No,” Amber said, shaking her head and wishing he would let her replace the cap. “I feel quite well, other than the nervousness this has created.”
Dr. Hankins nodded while looking at her head, his thick eyebrows pulled together beneath his wig. “I am afraid I h
ave never encountered a situation such as this before,” he said. “Hair loss is usually accompanied by other physical symptoms that indicate a severe illness. Without other discomforts—as you’ve told me—I’m afraid I am unaware of what could be the cause of this.”
He must have seen Amber’s expression fall as he smiled and leaned toward her slightly. “You should take comfort to know that you are likely not experiencing anything that will endanger your life. There are all manner of complexities about the human body, and while I am not experienced with this particular situation, I shall consult some journals and confer with colleagues before I return to—”
“No,” Lady Marchent said, stepping into the room and drawing Dr. Hankins’s attention. “You are to talk to no one of this. I explained that upon your agreement to come.”
“I shall exert the utmost discretion, Madam, but it would be a benefit for me to hear of other practitioners’ experience.”
“I explained that this was for your knowledge only,” Lady Marchent said, fixing him with a reproving look. “I shall hold you to your word on that.”
Dr. Hankins held her eyes a moment then nodded. “I shall return on Thursday morning, then, and hope that I can find information within my own resources before then.”
“We shall hope for that as well,” Lady Marchent said.
The doctor and her mother took their leave while Amber replaced the cap on her head and tucked her hair into it without inspecting her reflection. It was too gruesome to look at. Once the cap was in place, she scrutinized the dark brows in the mirror, remembering Dr. Hankins’s comment regarding them, and realized that the left one was not as thick as the right. She leaned in further and blinked her eyes, noting her long dark eyelashes—another enviable feature—but was unable to tell if they were affected.
When the hinge of the door signaled an entrance, she tugged her cap a bit lower in hopes the shadow of the brim would hide her brows. Lady Marchent closed the door behind her and approached Amber still seated at her dressing table.
Lady Marchent pulled a small, dark-colored jar from somewhere amid the folds of her morning gown. “I procured this from a cart-man yesterday afternoon, but I hoped the doctor would have a better course. It is a blend of herbs and medicines from the Orient. You are to apply it morning and night to stimulate your scalp. It should help contain the hair loss. I feel it best for us to pursue this course as we await Dr. Hankins’s return. We’ve no time to waste.”
Amber eyed the jar with trepidation. “Perhaps we could wait until after the doctor returns and—”
Lady Marchent fixed her with a look that communicated her lack of patience.
“I’m sorry,” Amber said, hanging her head.
“I am doing all I can to help you.”
“I know that,” Amber said, swallowing tears she knew would not be well received; her mother did not know how to react to emotion any more than Amber did. They had been raised to be strong and in possession of their feelings, not to give into them. “I shall do whatever you ask of me.”
When her mother left the room sometime later, Amber rang for Suzanne to whom she gave a brief accounting, acting the part of the cool and confident mistress, much like her mother’s treatment of herself had been.
Perhaps that is what everyone does, she thought. We pass our discomfort to someone else so as not to carry so much of it ourselves.
Suzanne picked up the jar and removed the lid. Her face crinkled, and she lifted a hand to her nose, opening her mouth as though to protest.
Amber fixed her with a hard look in the mirror, and Suzanne seemed to think better of whatever argument she was designing. Amber removed her cap without looking at her reflection. Instead, she watched with increasing anxiety as Suzanne dipped her fingers into the jar to extract a portion of the thick, yellow substance. Only when she was prepared to apply it did Amber fully look at the entirety of her reflection.
Her heart seemed to freeze in her chest at the sight. The portion of her head from the crown to her left ear was smooth as an egg now. She couldn’t see the back portion that had first been a concern but she could see daylight through the remaining strands of her long hair.
“I put this on the affected areas?” Suzanne asked, her eyebrows pulled together in concern.
“Is that not what I already instructed you?” Amber snapped, concealing her nervousness with irritation. She could not expect Suzanne to have confidence if Amber did not show an increased amount herself.
Suzanne stepped closer and extended her paste-covered fingers toward Amber’s head.
Amber startled as the slightly cool substance first touched her scalp, then wrinkled her nose as a stink of camphor and rotting leaves assaulted her. It was strong enough to clear Amber’s lungs and nasal passages, and it turned her stomach. She attempted to breathe through her mouth as Suzanne covered the baldness with a liberal amount of putrid ointment.
Suzanne put the jar on the dressing table—the smell further assaulting Amber’s nose due to its nearness—and pulled back the hair covering the space on the back of Amber’s head. She dug out another handful of the vile mixture and applied it accordingly. The cooling sensation alerted Amber to how much hair was missing in the back, and to her surprise, Suzanne parted her hair again on the right and applied more of the mixture to two smaller areas of baldness Amber did not know existed.
When Suzanne finished, she replaced the cap on the jar and asked permission to leave the room in order to clean the ointment from her hand.
Amber excused her and then attempted to plait the remainder of her hair in such a way as to disguise the bald patches. There was no concealment of her appearance any longer. The mixture was greasy and yet sticky too, and she wondered if it would be absorbed into her skin or if there was an amount of time she should leave it before wiping it off? She would surely have to wash her hair to facilitate the removal and feared that a washing would cause even more hair to fall out.
The coolness of the salve’s application was beginning to change into a heat, and Amber shifted uncomfortably on her stool, avoiding her reflection. She wanted to cover her head with the cap, but worried about soiling it with the ointment.
In need of distraction, she recovered the most recent copy of The Ladies’ Monthly Museum, which she had already read through four times, and flipped through the pages as she waited for Suzanne to return. The heat of the ointment became more pronounced, and Amber’s discomfort increased. She tried harder to distract herself with an article about increased fashion for lace and ermine trim.
The uncomfortable heat turned to burning and then sharp pains began to shoot through her scalp. She paced back and forth across the room and took deep breaths, waiting for the discomfort to pass. Surely it would pass!
It did not.
Finally, she ran for the bellpull. She did not reach it before there was a quick knock and the door to her bedchamber opened. The itching and burning felt fit to boil her skin.
“Miss?” Suzanne said from the doorway.
“Where have you been!” Amber yelled a moment before she noticed that Suzanne was holding up the hand she had used to apply the monstrous mixture. The fingers and palm were red as though scalded, raw and blistering. Amber met Suzanne’s frightened eyes. “What is this?” she asked, her voice edged with sincere concern even as the pain of her head seemed to intensify.
“Mrs. Yarrow is preparing a salve she feels certain will soothe us—she uses it for kitchen burns,” Suzanne said. “She fears there is something amiss with that ointment.” Her eyes moved to look at Amber’s head and went wide. “We must get all we can from your head as quickly as possible, Miss.” She hurried to the bellpull. “But I’m afraid I shan’t be able to do it alone.”
A chambermaid and Nelson were soon attending Amber, and although it upset her to have other servants involved, she was without any other recourse. It took all of Amber’s genteel breeding not to show the increasing level of her pain and fear as Nelson ordered a tub of warm water and
, in turn, soap for Amber’s head and hair.
Suzanne could do naught but run back and forth from the room in search of the items Nelson ordered. Amber felt as though Nelson were peeling the very skin from her skull as the maid attempted to remove the ointment, and bit her lip to keep from crying out in pain.
“Now, dip your ’ead in ’ere, Miss,” Nelson said after having washed Amber’s hair three times and then procuring a bin of cooled water. The washings had left Amber as wet as if her entire person had been put in the bath; the goal had been speed not comfort. “The cold will do good for the blisterin’, methinks. I need to see about the salve Mrs. Yarrow was preparin’, then I’ll return to attend to ya.”
Blistering, Amber repeated in her mind as Nelson helped her lean over the tub and dip her head in the cold water. Even though Amber was finally alone and able to release the emotion she had withheld thus far, she couldn’t cry with her head inverted like it was. She focused on taking long draws of air and attempting to take comfort in the fact that her head did feel better, despite her shivering and the continued throbbing of her scalp.
When Nelson returned, she helped Amber stand; her legs were shaky from having knelt over the basin for so long, and she had to be assisted to the dressing room stool. Nelson carefully used a soft towel to pat Amber’s head and remaining hair.
“Has my mother been told of what’s happened?” Amber asked once Nelson wrapped the towel around her head.
The maid did not meet Amber’s eyes as she turned back to the basin and used another towel to mop up the floor around it. “I informed Lady Marchent afore she left, Miss. She said she would look in on ya when she returned.”
Amber pinched her lips together and looked into her lap, noticing the dark strands of hair that stood out from the pink and white of her dress, the entire front of which was soaked through. She worked to control her emotion before standing and stepping around Nelson to look into the tub. Even more auburn strands stood out against the porcelain bottom. How much could be left with this much gone?
A Heart Revealed Page 6
