by Liz Carlyle
Unsympathetic, Hislop ignored him. “Provided you are still alive and breathing at the end of six weeks,” he went on, “and provided the bleeding and pain have stopped, we may safely assume it is not a cancer.”
Camille made a sound of relief and shut her eyes.
“On the other hand,” the doctor continued, “if you keep on as you are—drinking, smoking, and fretting over whatever the devil it is you are fretting about—and one of those ulcerations eats through to your innards, then you may well wish you had a cancer.”
“He will do as you say,” said Camille, snatching the list. “I shall see to it.”
Rothewell was smiling grimly. “So the two of you mean to starve me to death instead, eh?” he said teasingly. “Without even the comfort of my brandy? Good God, Doctor, this is a sorry way for a man to go.”
The doctor had the audacity to lean forward and pat Rothewell’s knee. “Keep on as you are, my lord,” he said again, “and you’ll soon be praying for the Angel of Death. There won’t be a bloody thing I can do about it, either, so do me a great kindness and don’t send for me. I really do dislike watching strapping young men writhe in agony, particularly when a bit of temperance could have avoided it.”
He had painted a vivid picture in Rothewell’s mind. “Yes,” said Rothewell, much subdued. “It does seem a waste.”
“Well, that’s that!” Hislop rose, his knees cracking back into place. “I’d bleed him with my lancets, my lady, just to get his attention, but he can’t spare it right now.”
“Très bien,” she said, shooting Rothewell a warning look. “We shall let him off that hook—this time.”
Hislop took up his bag. “Well, that will be ten pounds sixpence, my lord, for the call,” he said. “Might I ask that you settle your account now?’
“Ten pounds six?” Rothewell echoed, horrified. “Why, highwayman don’t make that!”
“Yes, but I find an exorbitant fee tends to dramatically increase the value of my advice,” said the doctor. “And I like the terminally ill to pay straightaway. After all, one never knows.”
Rothewell blinked uncertainly. “But…But I thought you said…if I ate stewed chicken…?”
“Ha-ha!” said the doctor, elbowing Camille. “Just making a point, my lord! Six weeks—and no cheating!”
Camille escorted the doctor down the stairs and sent Trammel off to the cash box. At the front door, she paused to thank Hislop.
The doctor puffed out his cheeks. “Pray do not thank me yet, my lady,” he warned. “This will not be easy. I know his lordship’s type.”
“Oui, perhaps,” she quietly acknowledged. “But you do not quite know mine.”
Dr. Hislop smiled as a footman threw open the door. As they said their final good-byes, a fine barouche pulled to the pavement, and Mr. Kemble climbed gingerly out, carrying a canvas bundle before him.
Camille was taken aback. “Good morning, Mr. Kemble,” she managed to say. “We were not expecting you.”
Kemble nodded at the passing doctor, who lifted his hat. “Yes, but I was expecting you,” he said brightly. Then, leaning into her, “Quelle horreur! What was that?”
“I fear it is a long story,” she said wryly.
Kemble shrugged it off at once. “Well, may I come in just a moment? I have something I wish you to see.”
“For a moment, oui,” she said. “But I am afraid my husband is rather ill.”
Kemble looked instantly grave. “All the more reason, then!” he said, swishing past her. He set the canvas bundle on the floor.
“Alors, what have you brought?” asked Camille, confused.
Kemble bent over and lifted the canvas bag with a soft whoosh! An ornate arrangement of glistening glass bowls and silver branches sat upon the hall carpet, rising to Camille’s hip. She drew in her breath sharply.
“Indeed, the epergne!” he proclaimed. “Is it not magnificent? Jean-Claude left it out by mistake, and Lady Sallwart nearly got hold of it, so when you didn’t turn up, I thought I’d best bring it by—but never mind that! Where is Rothewell? What has he done to himself now?”
“Now?” asked Camille pointedly.
Kemble smiled tightly. “Oh, he has a death wish, that one,” he said quietly. “I trust, my lady, that you can disabuse him of the notion?”
“Oui, certainement,” she said grimly. “You may depend upon it.”
Kemble started up the steps as if he knew where he was going. “Frankly, the life that man has led quite chills one’s blood,” he said, tossing his hand theatrically. “I shan’t terrify you with the details—but never say I did not warn him!”
“Vraiment? Did you warn him?”
“Oh, Lord yes!” said Kemble. “Scarcely six months ago, in this very house. We quarreled horribly over it, you know, but Rothewell is most unamenable to persuasion.”
“Is he indeed?” said Camille dryly. “I had not noticed.”
Kemble turned at the top of the stairs but nearly strode past Rothewell’s door.
“This way,” said Camille, lightly touching his shoulder. “We have changed rooms.”
Kemble turned and followed her in.
“Mon cœur, I have brought you a visitor,” she said.
Kieran lifted his head from the pillows. “Good God,” he said. “You!”
“Oui, c’est moi!” said Kemble cheerfully. “Try to contain your enthusiasm.”
“Do draw up a chair, Monsieur Kemble,” said Camille, going to the opposite side of the bed and beginning to fluff Rothewell’s pillows. “I am most eager to hear your story.”
Rothewell shot her a dark glance. “What story?”
“The story of how Monsieur Kemble warned you about your health,” she said lightly. “Six months ago, n’est-ce pas?”
“A little more,” said Kemble, settling into the chair he’d pulled to the bed. “It was May Day, actually. I remember it well.”
“Do you?” said Rothewell irascibly. “I certainly do not.”
Kemble turned to look at Camille. “I was warning him, you see, that the Satyr’s Club was a nasty, pernicious place, and that he ought not frequent—”
Camille dropped the pillow. “The Satyr’s Club?” she interjected. “What a vile name.”
“Yes, the place is rife with disease—I shan’t be specific, mind—and opium,” said Kemble knowingly. “Moreover, the poor devil was practically living in that hellish hole.” Then Kemble dropped his voice to a more somber tone. “And I warned him, too, that he was in grave danger of losing his looks from all the drinking and smoking,” he said gravely. “Can there be a greater tragedy, I ask you?”
“Oh, good God!” said Rothewell again. “What nonsense! You said no such thing.”
A tight smile curled Kemble’s lips. “But I did, my dear Rothewell, and you know it,” he said, cutting a chiding gaze toward him. “I told you quite plainly that you had all the charm and beauty of a violent death. That your skin tone was gone, your eyes were shot bloodred, and that it appeared a drunken stonemason had carved those lines into your face with a hammer and chisel. My exact words, I believe.”
“Très drôle,” said Camille. “It now appears my husband has made a habit of ignoring good advice.”
Rothewell stared at the ceiling. “I do not recall any of it.”
“Probably because you were half-sprung and in an ill humor at the time,” said Kemble blithely. “But never fear. I recall the rest of it, too.”
“Yes, right up until the moment I tossed you out on your arse, I hope?” Rothewell suggested.
“Thereabouts, yes.” Kemble laid a pensive finger to his cheek. “Now let me see! I warned you that your skin was losing its resiliency, and that if you hadn’t a bit of your island bronze left, you’d have no color at all. And then I wondered—presciently, it now would appear—what would become of you in another six months.”
Rothewell looked at him sarcastically. “And I said?”
Kemble crossed his legs, and set his hands atop his k
nee. “Why you said you might as well hang yourself!” he declared. “Once a chap’s looks are gone, you said, what else has he to live for? Good tailoring and a tight corset can only go so far.”
“Oh, good God!” Rothewell rolled his eyes heavenward. “I didn’t really mean that.”
Camille circled around the bed and sat gingerly at Kieran’s feet. “I fear, Monsieur Kemble, that the trouble is far worse than merely losing his looks,” she said, settling a soothing hand over Kieran’s ankle. “That, really, is bearable. But Dr. Hislop fears that my husband might have ulcerations—is that the word?”
Glumly, Kieran nodded.
“Oui, ulcerations in his stomach,” she went on. “It is very dangerous, he says, and my husband must rest for many weeks.”
“And eat a very bland diet,” said Kemble, nodding. “That is of the utmost importance. And you don’t want to eat anything they serve at the Satyr’s Club, old chap, if you catch my meaning.”
Just then, one of the footmen came in bearing a huge covered platter. “I beg your pardon, my lord,” he said, jerking to a halt. “Miss Obelienne said since you didn’t come down, I was to bring up a late breakfast?”
“Zut!” said Camille, as if to herself. “I must discuss with her the new diet.” Then, to the footman, “His lordship cannot eat that, Randolph. You must take it back down again.”
The servant swallowed hard. “Must I, ma’am?” he said. “Miss Obelienne won’t like it.”
Kieran motioned to the empty side of the bed. “Just set it here, Randolph,” he said. “What Obelienne doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”
The footman did as he was bid, shot a parting look at Camille, then hastened from the room.
Chin-Chin leapt at once onto the mattress, tail madly wagging. Clearly, the spaniel had expectations—well-founded, too, it soon appeared.
Mr. Kemble asked another question about Dr. Hislop’s evaluation. Camille reiterated much of what the physician had said, and the details of the new diet, all the while watching from one corner of her eye as Kieran lifted the lid from the platter and began to feed Chin-Chin from it.
“And so drink and diet might be eating his stomach away?” Kemble mused when she finished.
“Oui,” she answered. “But it is more than that, I think.”
Just then, Kieran dipped his finger in a pat of butter, and offered it to Chin-Chin to lick. Finally, mildly exasperated, Camille turned round on the bed. “Ça alors! How long have you been doing that?”
Kieran lifted a guilty gaze. “Doing what?”
Camille pointed at the dog. “Mon Dieu, he is going to explode,” she said. “He has got fat, Kieran. And that is not fit food for a dog.”
“But Jim likes it,” said her husband defensively. “Well, all but the spiced herring and the cassava pone.”
“Jim—?” said Kemble, standing to lean across the bed. “Jim’s no sort of name for a dog, Rothewell. And what the devil have they done to those kippers? The smell is peeling off my nose hair.”
“Those?” Kieran poked at the herring with a fork. “Some sort of West Indian seasonings. Obelienne has a strong hand at the spice box.”
Kemble’s face contorted. “Spiced breakfast kippers?” he said. “Now that is a sin against nature.”
Kieran shrugged. “I rather like them,” he said. “And they do take the edge off a hangover pretty nicely.”
“Oui, that may be,” said Camille primly, “but you may no longer eat them.” She moved to put the cover back on the platter.
“Wait!” said Kemble, poking his finger into the cassava pone again. “The dog won’t touch this, will he?”
Kieran shook his head. “Did I not just say so?”
Mr. Kemble looked at Camille. “Dogs are intelligent creatures,” he said, holding her gaze intently. “And cassava is deadly, if one does not know how to use it. Wrongly prepared, I daresay it would eat the lining out of anyone’s gut.”
“Mais non, monsieur.” Camille shook her head. “Obelienne is most careful with it. Indeed, she would not even let me touch it.”
His lips thin, his expression mistrustful, Kemble sat back down again. “How long have you employed her?” he asked Rothewell. “Has she any reason to wish you ill—aside from your frightful disposition, I mean?”
“Oh, balderdash!” said Rothewell. “The woman is the salt of the earth.”
Mr. Kemble, Camille decided, had a dark view of human nature. She shooed the dog away, covered the platter, and moved it to her husband’s dressing table by the door.
“All the same,” said Kemble, suddenly standing up again, “I think I should visit Miss Obelienne. Might I do so, Lady Rothewell?”
Camille looked at her husband. “Oui, I suppose,” she replied. “I must go down to see her about Dr. Hislop’s diet. Kieran, will you excuse us?”
They found Miss Obelienne at her worktable darning table linens. Upon being introduced to Mr. Kemble, she regarded him suspiciously. “Oui, Mr. Kemble is well known to me,” she said. “How do you do, sir?”
Swiftly, Camille explained Dr. Hislop’s requirements. Again, the cook looked displeased. “But no one can live, madame, on such a diet!” she protested. “It is flavorless, and without spirit.”
“But that is the very problem, Miss Obelienne,” Camille firmly explained. “Rothewell has had a little too much—er, spirit in his life—his doing, not yours. And it is only for six weeks. I am afraid Dr. Hislop insists.”
Obelienne tucked the list into her pocket with a sour look.
Camille smiled, and thanked her. “Now Monsieur Kemble would like to ask you some questions about your cassava root, since he has never seen it,” she said, not entirely sure she spoke the truth. “Will you kindly explain to him what you explained to me? And show him your spice cabinet, perhaps?”
“Bien sûr, monsieur,” she said, rising regally.
Mr. Kemble beamed. “Oh, thank you, Mrs. Trammel!” he said, clutching his hands theatrically. “I am something of an amateur herbalist, you know, and a bit of a cook myself, from time to time.”
Miss Obelienne looked over her shoulder, her expression dubious. “Follow me, monsieur,” she said, extracting the key ring from her pocket.
“It is so exciting to see cassava from the islands,” he said. “A rarity, as I am sure you know. Tell me, how do you come by it?”
“Miss Xanthia has it brought out to me, already made into a sort of flour, or packed in barrels of damp earth.” She unlocked the wide mahogany doors and threw them open to reveal the apothecary drawers.
As she had done before, she pulled open the large bottom drawer. This time, there were but two roots, and they looked a little withered. Miss Obelienne extracted one, and presented it to him. “Cassava is a good staple,” she said firmly. “But one must never eat it raw. Preparation is key.”
Mr. Kemble examined the still-dirty root. “How does one do that, Mrs. Trammel?”
She shrugged. “It depends, monsieur, on how you wish to eat it,” she said. “But always, the poison must be drawn off. Often it is boiled or fermented, or the starch is extracted.”
Kemble handed it back to her. “How does one know if it is safe?”
“If it is bitter, one mustn’t eat it,” said the cook a little haughtily. “But only a fool would do so. The taste is quite unpleasant.” She stood impassively, still suspicious, awaiting his next question.
“Well, that’s clear enough, is it not?” Kemble remarked. “I believe I shall leave cassava to the experts. Thank you, Mrs. Trammel, for educating me.”
“Miss Obelienne, why do you not show Mr. Kemble your herbs and spices?” Camille cajoled, trying to appease the cook. “Your collection is perfectly fascinating.”
Again, Kemble brightened. “Oh, yes!” he said rapturously. “Do let me see. I am sure, with Lady Nash’s ships going all around the world, you have a splendid array. Ooh, I smell saffron—and oh my! Is that tamarind?”
Warming a little to her task, the cook dutifully pu
lled open the little doors and drawers, going through the exotic names just as she had with Camille, and allowing Mr. Kemble to smell and examine those he wished.
“Most come from Miss Xanthia’s ships,” Obelienne explained, “but a few can be had in the markets.” She drew open the drawer which held the shriveled white root Camille had seen before. “This one, for example,” she said, dumping it from the cloth bag into Kemble’s palm. “It is very rare. Even Miss Xanthia cannot bring this.”
Suddenly, Mr. Kemble seemed to quiver like a bird dog on point. Gingerly, he picked it up. “What is this, Mrs. Trammel?” he asked sharply. “It is ginseng, is it not?”
Obelienne shook her head. “Non, monsieur, it is called rénshn.”
“Where do you get it?” The fawning fop was gone, and Kemble’s voice was suddenly strident.
Obelienne drew back. “Covent Garden Market,” she said a little defensively. “A Chinaman named Ling sells it there. I trade him green peppercorns from Bangalore.”
Lightly, Camille touched him on the wrist. “What is it, Monsieur Kemble?”
Kemble turned to look at her, his brown eyes alight. “I do much of my shopping in Covent Garden,” he said. “I know Mr. Ling vaguely. This root is Chinese ginseng.”
“Oui?” Camille blushed. “Obelienne says it increases a man’s—well, his…”
“His stamina,” Kemble supplied diplomatically. “Some call it ‘manroot,’ and it costs a bloody fortune.” He turned to the cook again. “Have you been giving raw rénshn to Lord Rothewell, Mrs. Trammel?”
Obelienne drew herself up an inch. “Oui, of course,” she said. “Mr. Ling says it will keep him strong and potent. My husband says Rothewell must have a son. Now he has a wife. And I have the rénshn. After all, someone must keep him healthy, non?”
Kemble’s knuckles had gone a little white where he clutched the root. “How do you give it to him, Mrs. Trammel?” he asked sharply. “And how often? Be precise, if you please.”
The cook looked suddenly frightened. “I…I put a little in the cassava,” she said. “Like gingerroot, oui? A little in this thing or that thing. Anything spicy which hides the taste. Otherwise, he is very difficult.”
“Oui, oui, we know that he is,” Camille reassured her. “How often, Obelienne? How long?”
