Page 58 of Yielding to Love

Chapter Nineteen

Crispin prevented Hazard from sending for Jasper, and thereby ruining the family’s holidays, by permitting him to summon a doctor. He knew Hazard would have done so regardless. James, a burly young man who appeared better suited for boxing than buttling, stood by the bedchamber door while a wizened fellow with yellow eyes looked in Crispin’s mouth, pressed on his abdomen, and then examined the contents of his chamber pot.

“And when did you say you last ate?” the doctor asked.

“This morning.”

“If I may, Major,” James said, “you had one bite of an apple.”

Crispin hadn’t the strength to scowl. “You tried to feed me sops, when I told you I would eat neither bread nor milk.”

The doctor tut-tutted. “You are suffering from a type of bloody flux. It is not food making you ill, but the lack of it will prevent your recovery.”

Crispin laid his head back onto his pillow, gritting his teeth, trying not to groan. He felt like a child again, with his mother’s hand on his brow, and yet another doctor telling her she must force him to eat. This while his insides turned themselves inside-out.

“It is true, though, that when he eats, he either vomits or he is seized with pains.” James gestured to the chamber pot.

“Laudanum will cure that.”

“I won’t take laudanum.”

“Come now,” the doctor scolded. “It is a ready cure.”

Hazard yelled from the hallway, “Do as the fellow says.”

Crispin swallowed back a bitter retort. He had been forced to take laudanum four times in his life. Each time it had been after weeks of worsening ill health when nothing else worked. The first time, he was just twelve years old. It cured him by making him stuporous and stupid. And yet worse than the drug was giving it up. The lack was wrenching. It was always wrenching. He’d told himself he would rather die than go through that again.

And the doctor was a fool. It was food making him sick. All his life, he’d accustomed himself to gut cramps and bouts of nausea that came and went. It was normal to always feel vaguely ill. This was interspersed with weeks of more profound illness—which left him wrung out like a rag, yet grateful to emerge, still alive. But with Adam’s guidance, he had, eventually, felt well. It astounded him to think that others lived that way all the time. Feeling well. And yet, he’d squandered that good fortune. Why? To spite Camellia?

No. To punish himself. He should not have lain with her. He was doing penance. Why wear a hairshirt when a cup of ale and a cheese sandwich would serve just as well?

The doctor fished around in his bag and pulled out a bottle. “A spoonful three times a day. Morning, midday, and night. More often if your symptoms warrant. And eat healthful foods. Beef tea. Sops. Blood pudding. Marrow. A glass of brandy for sleep. It is no wonder your bones hurt. You are skeletal.”

Crispin wondered if that was supposed to be a joke.

“Leave it there,” he said, nodding to his bedtable. “James will see you out.”

While James escorted the doctor out, Hazard came in. The hair at his temples was now noticeably gray, and he had wrinkles about his eyes. The man had enough worries of his own, without designating himself Crispin’s keeper.

“I’ve seen your leech. Will you leave me be now?”

“Will you take the medicine?”

He considered lying. Yes. He considered saying what he wished to. No. He told the truth. “Maybe. I don’t know.” This was why he’d bought his commission and gone to fight Boney. To die without the torment of sickness. He hated to be weak. He had always hated to be weak.

“Crispin—”

“I know what will work.”

“James says you are determined to starve yourself.”

“Not to death.”

Hazard laughed without humor. “You cannot starve yourself to health.”

Perhaps not. But he was determined to try.

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