Milena sighed. “Well, I don’t see why not. As long as it’s all right with Beth. But please don’t bring this one back to me as if it’s been in a cat’s mouth. I’ll give you another reticule and bonnet as well,” she added, leaving the dressing room.
Wow. How strange it felt to put on a pair of jeans and a pullover after all this time in flimsy, empire-waisted gowns. Somehow her tight pants felt more restrictive than any of her 1801 corseting had. Amazing what a body can adjust to, C.J. marveled as she went back downstairs to the theatre.
Although it was offered, she refused any medical treatment for her dazed behavior. So the By a Lady staff sent her home to get some rest and prepare to start rehearsals at ten the following morning. C.J. went back upstairs to the dressing room to claim her cloak and noticed a modest-sized carpetbag on the bottom shelf of the costume rack. Perfect for transporting drugs across time. What was a little petit larceny compared to the life of a dear friend? Tomorrow she would bring some beta-blockers to rehearsal and see if she could somehow get back to Bath and cure the countess. Was it possible to alter someone’s destiny? Was it right? Shouldn’t saving the life of a loved one come before all else?
It felt very odd to be surrounded by automobiles, trucks, buses, and so much comparative bustle and noise, and to enter a modern high-rise and turn the key in the lock of her apartment. C.J. fingered the amber cross that still hung about her neck and sighed; not relieved, but disconcerted. After such a strange journey, she was back home. Or was she?
Chapter Nineteen
While Lady Dalrymple benefits from a new nurse, our self-proclaimed apothecary does some night crawling of her own, but a nasty surprise threatens to once again alter our heroine’s destiny.
WHEN SHE GOT UPSTAIRS, C.J. made a beeline for the medicine cabinet in the master bathroom, her heart pounding as she looked for the state-of-the-art prescriptions that had helped postpone the inevitable for her grandmother as long as modern medicine could.
The interior of the medicine chest resembled a well-stocked pharmacy. C.J. found a large amber-colored plastic bottle of green and yellow nitroglycerin capsules. It was nearly full. She sifted through bottles containing hexagonal Inderal tablets, each penny-candy color denoting a different dosage. Nana’s long illness had spurred C.J. to do her own research into the properties of various medications. The Internet had provided a host of information, and the Physicians’ Desk Reference had become her bible. From the little C.J. had managed to glean from the incompetent Dr. Squiffers, she surmised that Lady Dalrymple was suffering from a form of angina, in which case the nitroglycerin should effectively treat her condition or, at the very least, prolong her life. Best case scenario: the dowager countess was merely the victim of chest pain; worst case: the pills could certainly be no more dangerous than Dr. Squiffers’s antediluvian methods of treatment.
If the modern medicines worked, C.J. would have another hill to climb to persuade Lady Dalrymple’s cook to completely alter her mistress’s diet. Caffeinated tea was probably a bad idea too. It was going to be difficult to convince her ladyship to forgo afternoon tea. Oh yes—and then there was alcohol. No more afternoon dram of sherry or evening glass of port. C.J. wondered if her “aunt” would consider the forfeit of so many of her life’s simple pleasures worth the cure. At least the countess kept a positive outlook on life, and that was supposed to be a plus when it came to the anticipation of a full recovery from the condition known as effort angina.
C.J. only hoped that time was on her side. There was no consideration of waiting until the rehearsal. She had to get right back to the theatre. She dumped the contents of each plastic pill bottle into separate paper envelopes, carefully labeling them with a fountain pen. Then she toured her apartment for the last time, shedding several tears over what she was willingly leaving behind. Amid a tinkle of wind chimes, she shut and locked the apartment door, feeling as if her body was being stretched on a rack that spanned more than two hundred years.
LADY DALRYMPLE WAS resting comfortably while Mary Sykes sat vigilantly by, cross-stitching a simple tapestry. “I have not yet seen Cassandra,” her ladyship remarked anxiously, accustomed to her “niece’s” nightly visit to wish her a good evening and a tranquil slumber.
“I think she was quite fatigued,” Mary lied, wholly aware that Miss Welles had not even been home to witness her arrival at the Royal Crescent. “But she wished you a good night before she went—to sleep,” she quickly added. “Does it still hurt, your ladyship?”
Her respiring had been labored for the past several hours, during which Mary bravely tried to conceal her alarm. “Only when I breathe,” the countess replied gamely.
THE FRONT DOOR of the Bedford Street Playhouse had been padlocked, and as C.J. struggled to open the back door—which appeared to have been locked from within—she was approached by an unshod man who materialized from the alleyway and limped over to her, hand extended, palm up. At first C.J. didn’t comprehend what the man wanted, his speech being slurred by drink or drugs or dearth of teeth. The panhandler looked young and tolerably healthy enough to hold down a job, barring the apparent substance abuse.
“Hungry?” C.J. offered him an apple from her shoulder bag. The beggar inspected it closely, then grudgingly decided to accept the gift. After devouring the fruit as though he hadn’t eaten in hours, if not days, he stretched out a dirty hand, cocked his head to one side, and regarded his benefactress mournfully.
If only someone had helped me when I first arrived in Bath, C.J. thought, carefully extracting a dollar from her
