“You’ve expended all your energies, my lord.” The doctor placed his hands on Lord Ransley’s shoulders and tried to guide him away. “You can do no more for him tonight.”
Valen’s father was not ready to be ushered away. Elizabeth touched his sleeve. “Thank you, my lord, for saving us. We would both be dead, if it were not for you.”
Lord Ransley pressed his hand over hers and met her gaze.
“Do what you can for him. I’ve seen the way he looks at you. If he knows you are here, perhaps he will...” Under the weight of his despair, the gray rings under Lord Ransley’s eyes burrowed deeper. “Please. He is all I have that matters.”
She nodded, an answering tightness in her chest making it impossible to speak.
“Come, my lord. You must rest.” The doctor prevailed upon him, and patting the frail man’s shoulders, took Lord Ransley away. He returned with a fresh bowl of water and a stack of white linen rags. “His Lordship tells me you are a healer—familiar with herbs.”
“Only in passing, sir.”
He nodded. “Just as well. One must remember, some of those old remedies do more harm than good.”
She nodded obediently but wondered, somewhat annoyed, how a man who just set three hideous leeches to suck on Valen’s chest might judge the validity of using a little garlic to strengthen the lungs.
“However, I’m glad you know something about tending the infirm.” He set down his supplies and scratched at his side-whiskers. “We must ward off fever. Throughout the night, it is essential to wet these cloths and wipe him down every hour or so.” He opened his watch and set it on the table beside the pan of water. “I shall be glad of your assistance.”
He showed her how to do it and then sat down in the padded armchair. Stretching out his legs, he crossed them at the ankles, yawned, stretched, propped his head to one side and promptly dozed off. Obviously, he was quite used to sleeping in a chair.
Elizabeth had no such similar success. The writing chair was hard, and the wooden back annoyed her spine when she tried to lean against it. She got up and rummaged through her belongings until she found a book. She pulled it out, squinted at the title, and wished she might find something more stimulating than a book of lectures on the proper conduct of young ladies. She dug again and produced a book of Shakespearean sonnets.
As much as she admired William Shakespeare, his poetry did not prove as riveting as she had hoped. Her head drooped and the text blurred. At last she stopped struggling and closed the small volume.
She turned down the remaining lamp, leaving just enough dusky light to radiate over their patient. She sat down and stared at Valen. Soon the silence teemed with small sounds, his erratic breathing, the tick, tick, ticking of the doctor’s pocket watch as it resonated against the table. The steady undulation of the physician’s snores as they fluttered and whistled, going in and out against his heavy mustache.
Elizabeth massaged the ache in her neck and shoulders and leaned back, hoping to close her eyes and ease some of her weariness.
Valen murmured, a loud garbled set of consonants Elizabeth couldn’t comprehend. She checked the time, and it surprised her that an hour had passed so quickly.
Checking his brow for fever, she sighed with relief to find he was not too hot. She drenched a rag and wrung it out to wipe him down. The task passed quickly. Once more she returned to the small chair and resumed her vigil.
Sometime later she awoke, her chin bowed against her chest, surprised to find she had drowsed. Valen thrashed his head from side to side, muttering incoherently. She tapped on the clock to make sure it was working correctly, finding it hard to believe she had slept so long. She prepared another wet cloth.
When she pulled down the bed sheet, Valen grabbed her wrist and his eyes flashed open, glazed, wild. Elizabeth knew at once that he was not seeing her, but some phantom.
“Leave her be, Merót!” he tried to shout, but it came out in the husky half whisper of a nightmare.
“Shhh,” Elizabeth crooned, wiping his brow. “It’s over. Merót is dead. It’s over.”
He let go of her and rocked his head from side to side. “Izzie,” he muttered and drifted back into a fitful sleep.
She bathed the sweat from his neck and carefully dabbed away the crusting blood at the outer edges of his wound, flinching at the sight of the pulsating brown-black leeches. She averted her eyes from the grotesque creatures and softly ran the rag over the muscles of his abdomen.
An irony, that so much power should lie helpless, dormant beneath her fingers. She traced her fingertips lightly over the powerful ridges. When they contracted under her touch, a jolt of heat flamed into her cheeks. A lady ought not touch a man thus. Especially an unconscious man. Any man. Conscious or not. Elizabeth glanced guiltily at the doctor. Undoubtedly she ought to have selected the Lectures On Proper Conduct For Young Ladies to read.
Her chaperone snored rhythmically, completely at peace. The house might burn down, and she guessed he would sleep through it. Oh yes, he was a perfectly proper chaperone.
Elizabeth quickly pulled Valen’s covers up and straightened her aching shoulders. She was exhausted. Otherwise she never would have ventured to... to what? All she did was merely wipe down a feverish patient. Yes. She was making much ado about nothing.
Precisely. She would adhere to Mr. Shakespeare's wisdom and not make mountains out of molehills. Or something along those lines. Gad. She was tired.
Elizabeth plopped down on the hard chair. The pocket watch ticked. The doctor’s mustache quivered as he snored. The oil lamp hissed and flickered because she’d set it so low. Valen muttered in his sleep. She stared down at her toes and wondered how she would get through the night. She
