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Lady Clay gave Henry a funny look. Her right eyebrow lifted very high on her forehead. “The doctor is in with Her Grace presently.”
“He is?” Henry took a step backward and put his hand on the banister for support.
Did I just run around the house all afternoon, searching for the doctor, and he has somehow made it back to Eleanor’s side? MaybeI’mfeeling a little unwell…
Henry lifted a hand to his forehead. He was sweating, but that was from the exertion, not a fever. “Excuse me, Lady Clay,” Henry said, and then he took off down the hall in the opposite direction.
The race down the hallway took Henry just a moment, but when he made it to Eleanor’s bedchambers, he bent over and panted, trying to catch his breath. “Doctor…” Henry began, but he stopped when he realized that Dr. Wexler was already talking.
The doctor was pointing to all the windows and Georges, as well as Eleanor’s lady’s maid, were both following the instructions to the letter. “You must close all the windows. Yes, do it at once. The curtains must be pulled tight. We must not let any miasmas into this room. I fear Her Grace has already been impacted by the foul air.”
“Foul air?” Henry echoed, as he stepped further into the room.
“Yes,” Dr. Wexler said, continuing to move with his hands toward the open windows. “When I took a health history from Her Grace, I learned that the two of you have spent a great number of hours outdoors over the last week. You’ve been riding about in open wagons, delivering animals…” he said the word disdainfully, “… to some of the local farmers.”
“Yes,” Henry answered, “My wife had a great number of pets, and we needed to give them to some of the tenants. We rode in a curricle on some days, but we took the wagon when we needed more room for the animals. Is that a problem?”
Dr. Wexler shook his head tragically. “You have no idea what you have done, Your Grace. I am to understand that Her Grace did not wear a bonnet or a veil. Is that accurate?”
Henry tried to think back over the time he and Eleanor spent delivering the animals. “I’m sure she wore a sort of cap thing,” Henry said, making a motion over his head as if he could accurately describe the shape of the hat his wife had worn on those occasions.
“But no veil?” the doctor pressed.
“No,” Henry shook his head, clearly recalling every look he had been able to exchange with his wife. “She never wears a veil.”
“That is it! That is the cause,” Dr. Wexler said, gesticulating wildly.
“You believe Eleanor is sick because she went outside?” Henry asked incredulously. “What about the cat scratch?”
“The cat scratch has nearly healed,” Dr. Wexler replied, motioning toward Eleanor.
“It has?” Henry questioned, moving a step closer to his wife. “I thought it looked dreadful.”
“Yes, well, the cat scratch has almost disappeared, and yet Her Grace is ailing. We must keep all the windows closed and do light a fire,” the doctor instructed, turning once more to address Georges. The little valet followed orders at once.
Henry stared in a state of bewilderment around the room. “What should I do, Doctor?”
“Once all the vile air has been locked out of this room, Her Grace should improve at once, if it is not already too late,” the doctor said, nodding his head at his own logical conclusion.
“Too late?” Henry repeated. “Is that possible?”
“We shall see,” the doctor replied.
