Page 100 of The Work of Art

A shudder of relief racked his body. “She’s not dead.”

“Isn’t she?” William’s brow creased. “Oh, but she looks very poorly, sir.”

Arthur ignored him. With a single-mindedness born of half a lifetime spent on the battlefield, he untied Philly’s neckcloth and opened up the fitted jacket of her riding habit so that she might breathe more freely. He then gathered her up into his arms, and very slowly got to his feet. His leg gave a deep throb of protest, but it didn’t give way beneath him. As William looked on with wide, disbelieving eyes, Arthur carried Philly to the gig.

“It’s going to be all right, love,” he said to her. “I’m taking you home.”

Arthur was fighting a herculean battle to keep calm. He sat in a chair beside Philly’s bed while Mr. Graves examined her. The stout elderly man looked more like the village butcher than the village surgeon. As he moved his brawny hands across Philly’s head, Arthur tensed with every touch.

“I’ve seen worse,” Graves pronounced, as he completed his inspection. “Over at Mr. Tuttle’s last year, the gardener’s lad took a fall that near broke his head open. Never regained his senses, poor chap, and only two days later—” A speaking glance from Mrs. Lamb caused the old surgeon to break off from his grim reminiscence. He looked warily at Arthur, cleared his throat, and continued in a more sober tone. “Yes, yes, as I mean to say, there’s no need to worry just yet, Captain Heywood. There was a great deal of blood, to be sure. ’Tis the nature of a head wound. But as for the rest—the swelling and loss of consciousness—well, that’s only to be expected with a concussion.”

“When will she wake?” Arthur’s gaze rested on Philly’s face. She was pale and drawn, lying so still upon the bed that the rise and fall of her chest was scarcely discernable.

“Ah, well that’s the question. Could be as soon as an hour. Then again, she mightn’t wake for a day or more. I counsel patience in these situations.”

“What about her pain? She looks as if she’s…suffering.”

“Oh no, Captain Heywood,” Mrs. Lamb said. “She’s sleeping peacefully, I’m sure of it.”

“Quite right,” Mr. Graves agreed. “Now if she wakes with a headache, you can give her a dose of laudanum. Otherwise I don’t think she’ll suffer too much. There are no broken bones that I can find, and the cut on her head is a small one. I’d as soon not bind it now it’s stopped bleeding. The best course is to let her sleep. If she worsens, send for me quick as you can, but I daresay you won’t need to. A young lady in good health won’t have any trouble recovering.”

“She wasn’t in good health.” Arthur’s voice sounded cold and flat to his ears. As if all emotion had been wrung out of him. He rather felt as if it had been.

“What’s this?” Graves was suddenly alert.

“She was tired. She couldn’t seem to get enough sleep. For the last three weeks, she—”

“It’s all right, Captain Heywood.” Mrs. Lamb ushered the surgeon away. “I can explain, Mr. Graves. You see…”

Arthur couldn’t hear the whispered exchange. His attention was entirely on Philly. When he’d brought her home, Mrs. Lamb and Sara had carefully removed her riding habit and dressed her in one of her ruffled white nightgowns. Now, with her hair loose and the coverlet pulled up across her chest, she looked so unbearably vulnerable that he didn’t know what to do.

Sara approached with a basin of water, some strips of cloth, and a small bottle of lavender-water. She busied herself preparing a cold compress, and when she’d done, she pressed it to Philly’s forehead. The maid’s birdlike little face screwed up in concentration as she leaned over her mistress, bathing her face with the utmost care.

Arthur waited for Philly to stir, to show in some small way that the ministrations of her maid were giving her comfort, but she remained as still and lifeless as she’d been since first he found her. He took one of her hands in his, hardly registering the sound of the bedroom door closing behind the surgeon or the presence of Mrs. Lamb as she came to stand beside him.

“Captain Heywood, I expect you’ll be very angry to hear this now. Indeed, it’s not my place to tell you. But—”

Arthur finally lifted his eyes from his wife, fixing them on Mrs. Lamb with an intensity that stopped her speech. “What is it?”

Mrs. Lamb took a deep breath. “I’ve taken the liberty of summoning Mrs. Ingram from the village.”

“Mrs. Ingram.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The village midwife.”

Sara rapidly gathered the basin and cloths and beat a hasty retreat to Philly’s dressing room.

“Yes, sir,” Mrs. Lamb said. “As I said, it’s not my place, but I’ve suspected that Mrs. Heywood may be…that is to say, in my experience…a lady in Mrs. Heywood’s condition—”

“What the devil are you telling me? Are you saying that my wife is with child?”

Mrs. Lamb drew back from him. “I’ve reason to think so, yes. There have been various…symptoms.” She turned a dull red. “I’ve been giving her a special decoction to ease her, but I couldn’t be sure. These are early days yet—”

“She said nothing of this.” Arthur’s heart pounded painfully in his chest. He looked down at Philly again, squeezing her hand in his. “Why wouldn’t she tell me?”

“She mightn’t have realized it herself, sir. For some ladies it can be quite common to…occasionally…” Mrs. Lamb gave a discreet cough. “I beg your pardon, Captain Heywood, but these matters are best left with women.”