Page 118 of The Summer Country

“I’ll keep boiling water,” said Emily. “If it doesn’t do any good, at least it can’t do harm.”

Dr. Braithwaite opened his eyes and regarded her ruefully. “It’s damnable of me, but I’m selfishly glad you’re here. I should wish you back at Beckles, for your own good.”

“If I were at Beckles,” said Emily matter-of-factly, “then the cholera would be too. So there’s no point in wishing me away.”

Dr. Braithwaite peered owlishly over the top of his glass. “Are you telling me you’re cursed?”

It took her a moment to realize he was joking. “Ha,” she said. “No. It’s just that if Adam weren’t here, he would be there, and he’d already been exposed. We can’t tell when he contracted it.”

“No, we can’t.” Dr. Braithwaite turned his glass of sherry around and around, letting the liquid catch the lamplight. “What will happen to Fenty and Company if your cousin doesn’t pull through?”

“He will,” said Emily stoutly. “I’m sure of it. But should anything happen to him . . . My uncle was never much interested. If Adam weren’t about to carry on the legacy, I expect Uncle Archibald might sell the company, and invest in a country estate, and pretend to be a gentleman.”

“Pretend?”

“We’re not, really, you know. We’re only a generation removed from those people in the hills in St. Andrew, with dirt grimed beneath their fingernails. We haven’t a genteel bone in our bodies.” It belatedly occurred to her that she wasn’t entirely sure what sort of bones she had in her body, other than the fact that they all ached right now. Her quest to find her true parentage seemed very far away right now and rather silly. The threat of death did tend to concentrate the mind on the essentials.

“When Adam delved and Eve span, who then was the gentleman?” recited Dr. Braithwaite. He sounded drunk, although Emily suspected it was fatigue rather than the sherry, which he had touched not at all. “Don’t look to me. I’m just a jobbing surgeon.”

“If you’re angling for compliments, I’m not going to provide them,” said Emily. She decided she liked looking at her sherry more than drinking it. She admired the amber hue, and then set the glass down on the table. “When we first arrived, the night your uncle made you agree to take us to Peverills—”

Dr. Braithwaite groaned. “You’re not going to throw that up at me, are you?”

“Oh, I don’t blame you for not wanting to go. Especially since you’d been trespassing.” She looked pointedly at her companion, who assumed an air of exaggerated innocence. “No, what I wondered about was what your uncle said that night, about the obligation you owed my family.”

“Oh, that,” said Dr. Braithwaite. He let his head fall back against the wooden frame of the sofa, which couldn’t have been comfortable, as it had been carved into a stylized and rather pointy design.

“Yes, that,” Emily said.

“Your grandfather gave my uncle the money to buy his freedom.” There was a pause. Dr. Braithwaite slowly wiggled himself back up into a sitting position. “If you must know, he also arranged for my freedom. Of course, if my uncle had waited a year, he could have saved himself the money and your grandfather the trouble. But they didn’t know, then, that emancipation was so close. And there were the apprenticeships, so there was that.”

“Wait,” said Emily. “I don’t understand. Couldn’t your uncle just buy your freedom?”

“That assumes my mistress would have been willing to sell.” He grimaced, as though the words had a sour taste, and took a swig of sherry to wash them away. He coughed a little, as the alcohol hit his throat, and then said, his voice hoarse, “As you may have noticed, Mrs. Davenant doesn’t like to let any of her people go.”

Emily thought about George, about the spyglasses, about the son run off to Paris. “No,” she said.

Dr. Braithwaite leaned forward over his sherry glass, cupping it in both hands. “Your grandfather had a hold over Mrs. Davenant.” He held up his hand before Emily could speak. “I don’t know what it was. I only know that whatever it was, it was enough. Of course, the next question is what hold my uncle had over your grandfather. But that, you’ll have to ask him.”

“I think I might know,” said Emily slowly, thinking of the little Portuguese girl who wasn’t. She was so tired that even the one or two sips of sherry had made her feel worn through, as limp as an old dishrag. Rising, she stretched her arms as far as her dress would allow them to go, stifling a yawn. “I’d best go up to Adam. He’s been very quiet.”

Dr. Braithwaite caught her hand. The motion was so natural, so completely unconsidered, that it took both of them by surprise.

He dropped it as though he’d been burnt, saying rapidly, “Are you getting enough rest? You won’t do him any good if you work yourself into a decline.”

“I haven’t time to go into a decline.” Emily stared down at her own hand, as though expecting to see the imprint of his fingers branded into her wrist. She gave her head a little shake. “Truly. I’m in the pink of health.”

“I can see that.” Dr. Braithwaite leaned back against the couch, self-consciously holding his sherry. “The kerchief suits you.”

Emily wrinkled her nose at him, trying very hard to conjure the easy, comfortable tone of a few moments before. “I’ll look one out for you,” she promised. “After I’ve looked in on Adam.”

Adam was sleeping soundly, very soundly. Emily didn’t like to wake him. The room was dim, lit only by Emily’s candle. She shaded it to keep it from falling too harshly on Adam’s eyes, but something about the slackness of his wrist arrested her attention and she moved closer, holding the candle aloft so she could see his face.

“Nathaniel.” She didn’t even realize she’d called him by his first name as his uncle did. “Nathaniel.”

“What is it?” She could hear him taking the steps by twos. He was in the room in two bounds, coming up hard behind her.

“It’s Adam. He’s not— I don’t think he’s breathing.”