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A month ago, he would have agreed with this sentiment; after all, it was his sister’s obstinate belief too, but something about Lord Rackham’s sneering manner and his own growing awareness of the singular character of Angelica Leigh made Ivor Asprey affronted on her behalf. With barely controlled animosity he said, ‘I suppose, in your scheme of things, an actress is only fit to become a gentleman’s mistress?’
‘Exactly, my dear sir. Why would your nephew throw himself away on a woman he could set up in a house in Mayfair? It’s the established order of things that matters, wouldn’t you say?’ His voice drawled with cynical ennui.
Ivor Asprey’s fists clenched. Why did this man still provoke such violent feelings in him, he wondered, as he restrained himself from clouting that scornful smile on his lordship’s face? Instead he bade him farewell with a brief bow as he turned towards his office.
* * *
It was close to midnight, all the arguments had been paraded in the Commons, at times emotional anecdotes meeting mulish resistance, but with a demand for more evidence the vote was postponed to the following week. The Members of Parliament were filing out of the chamber, discussing whether to head home or to St James’s and their clubs. Mr Asprey was tired and considering relaxing at Brooks’s for an hour or so when he saw Nicholas Digby shouldering his way through the surging crowd. ‘Sir!’ he called out and waved an urgent hand.
As he came closer, Ivor noticed how his secretary’s usually genial face was contorted with anxiety. ‘What is it, Nicholas?’
‘You’re needed at home. Miss Stafford is concerned about Miss Leigh. She seems to be failing fast.’
Ivor Asprey collected his coat and hat from his office and the two men walked quickly from the building. ‘I have a Hackney waiting, sir.’
‘Have you called the doctor?’
‘He’s already been. Says there’s little to be done. He left some oil of poppy but to be used sparingly.’
The coach drew up outside the Asprey house and as they entered they found Miss Stafford coming down the stairs, her face pale, stray strands of hair loosened from her bun. ‘Oh, thank goodness you’ve come.’ Distracted by anxiety, she grasped Nicholas Digby’s hand with unexpected emotion.
Fear made Ivor Asprey throw the usual conventions to the wind as he sprinted up the stairs. Knocking quietly on Angelica’s door he was let in by an ashen-faced Mary who wordlessly led him to the bed. Angelica lay very still and white, her eyes closed, her breath quick and shallow and with an alarming rattling sound coming from her chest. Horrified, Ivor felt his heart constrict. For a moment he was back at his wife’s bedside, gazing on her almost lifeless form.
Determined not to be so helpless this time, he turned to Mary. ‘The room needs to be warmer, bank up the fire. And then ask Cook for two bowls of boiling water. We need steam.’
Miss Stafford had entered the room behind him. ‘I didn’t know whether to continue with the pummelling of her back. She seems so frail.’
‘Yes, it’s essential. Her lungs are slowly drowning in mucus. We have to get her coughing, I’m afraid, brutal as that may seem.’ He leant over Angelica and softly called her name, taking her hand. She did not respond. He turned to Miss Stafford. ‘Please help me roll her onto her left side.’
In the desperation of the hour, Ivor Asprey ignored the impropriety of handling the young woman’s body so intimately, and quickly turned her, pulling her right leg up and bending it at the knee to stabilise her on the bed. Miss Stafford worked beside him, brushing Angelica’s hair from her face and pulling her chemise down over her hips to protect her modesty.
Ivor’s face was set with anxiety. ‘I need to be able to drum on her back to get to the right lung first. Get the spittoon.’
Angelica’s eyes had fluttered open with alarm. She put a hand out to grasp his. ‘Don’t worry, Miss Leigh, this is just to help your breathing. Trust me.’ She coughed and Miss Stafford wiped her mouth. She groaned and closed her eyes as Ivor knelt on the bed in front of her and leaned over to try the Swiss doctor’s suggestion about how to release mucus in inflamed lungs. He cupped his hands and started to pummel her thin back. He was aware how fine-boned she was and was careful to moderate his action. He paused in the drumming when she started to cough.
‘Spit it out into this, Miss Leigh,’ Miss Stafford said, holding out the spittoon and wiping her mouth again with a handkerchief.
Mary had brought in the bowls of boiled water and set them steaming on the table. The fire was blazing and the room very warm. Ivor Asprey paused to strip off his coat and roll up his shirt sleeves. While he and Sarah Stafford worked to relieve the congestion in their patient’s lungs, Angelica lay in a semi-foetal position, her body reverberating with the rhythmic percussion on her back. The coughing seemed more productive and Miss Stafford’s concerned face swam in and out of view as she proffered the spittoon and wiped her lips each time. Mr Asprey continued to gently pummel her ribs. He had loosened his cravat and his fine linen shirt was damp with sweat. Only occasionally in the theatre had Angelica ever been this close to a stranger.
Illness had brought all kinds of indignities, but also heightened her senses. The doctor who smelt of stale camphor had laid his ear to her chest and made her recoil. Now it was Mr Asprey kneeling beside her, smelling of a sweet masculine warmth, leaning over her hip as he drummed on her back. His shirt was becoming untucked; it was so intimate a scene and with the bizarre clarity of a dream, Angelica thought if she were to put out a hand she could touch his breeches stretched tight over the muscle of his thigh and draw his vitality through her fingertips. In her physically depleted state he embodied strength, competence, safety and she knew that, despite how scandalous such intimacy would seem to the world, for her it was this house and this care that meant she could cling to life, and live. Her ribs were beginning to feel bruised by the insistent thrumming, her lungs hurt as she coughed, exhaustion overwhelmed her and she closed her eyes.
Angelica was so weak she could do nothing but struggle for breath but there was solace in having little energy for anything else. Others had taken responsibility for her and for everything around her. She had regressed to a state where only the most basic elements of life needed her attention. She was aware of the comforting sound of the hooting owl in the tree beyond her window and in a half-dream waited for the answering call from the other side of the mews.
By the time Ivor Asprey and Miss Stafford had finished their ministrations, Angelica longed to sleep for a week. They rolled her gently onto her back, propped up on pillows. Mary was asked to replenish the steaming bowls of water through the night and keep the room warm with a well-fed fire. ‘Let me know if there’s any change for the worse, whatever the time.’ Ivor addressed both Mary and Miss Stafford. They stood looking down on the fragile figure in the bed. Angelica’s beauty had always been striking for her vitality and brilliance of colouring but now, so pale and enervated, she seemed more like a Renaissance painting of a saint and this sense of death so close chilled them all. Ivor Asprey picked up his coat and turned on his heel to disappear down the stairs to the library, his face white with fatigue and foreboding.
* * *
Angelica slept better than she had in days. Her breath was calmer and less rasping. Fevered dreams had receded and let her rest. She awoke to find the small face of Elinor Asprey leaning over her. As she opened her eyes the young girl sprang back with an apology. ‘Oh Miss Leigh, forgive me. But I was so worried about you. You are better, aren’t you?’
Angelica struggled to sit up. She was touched by the child’s sweet concern. ‘I think I may be a bit better. My breathing is easier.’ She took a gasping breath. ‘Your papa and Miss Stafford were treating me last night with the percussive method. It might have worked.’ Such a long series of words exhausted her and she lay back.
‘Am I tiring you?’ Elinor asked.
‘No. Don’t go. It’s good to have some company.’ She paused again. ‘Just talk to me. I may not be able to say much in reply.’
The girl seemed to be pleased to have some company herself. She settled into the window seat. ‘I shouldn’t be here. Miss Stafford and Papa think I’m reading in the nursery. I’m meant to be translating Aesop’s Fables from Latin. It’s hard. I was showing Papa how good I was last week and translated The Fox and the Crow.’
Angelica smiled and nodded, her eyes still closed as Elinor Asprey continued, ‘It means those who love to be flattered will eventually be punished when it’s too late to repent. My papa laughed and said he hoped I wasn’t thinking of him and I said no. Mr Digby had said he was proof against all flattery.’
