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Oliver sighe
d. His anger evaporated, leaving only fear.
“Monk is going to Felzburg. He thinks it was probably a political assassination, perhaps by Klaus von Seidlitz, in order to prevent Friedrich from returning to lead the struggle for independence, which could very easily end in war.”
“Then let’s hope he brings proof of it,” Henry replied. “And that Zorah will then apologize, and you can persuade a jury to be lenient with the damages they award,”
Oliver said nothing. The fire settled in a shower of sparks, and he found he was cold.
Hester was now sure beyond all but the slimmest hope that Robert Ollenheim would not walk again. The doctor had not said so to Bernd or Dagmar, but he had not argued when Hester had challenged him in the brief moment they had alone.
She wanted to escape from the house for a while to compose her thoughts before she faced their recognition of the truth. She knew their pain would be profound, and she felt inadequate to help. All the words she thought of sounded condescending, because in the end she could not share the hurt. What is there to say to a mother whose son will not stand or walk or run again, who will never dance or ride a horse, who will never even leave his bedroom unaided? What do you say to a man whose son will not follow in his footsteps, who will never be independent, who will never have sons of his own to carry on the name and the line?
She asked permission to leave on a personal errand, and when willingly granted it, she took a hansom east across the city to Vere Street and asked Simms if she might see Sir Oliver, if he had a few moments to spare.
She did not have long to wait; within twenty minutes she was shown in. Rathbone was standing in the middle of the room. There were several large books open on the desk, as if he had been searching for some reference. He looked tired. There were lines of stress around his eyes and mouth, and his fair hair was combed a little crookedly, a most unusual occurrence for him. His clothes were as immaculate as always, and as perfectly tailored, but he did not stand as straight.
“My dear Hester, how delightful to see you,” he said with a pleasure which caught her with a sudden warmth. He closed the book in his hand and set it on the desk with the others. “How is your patient?”
“Much recovered in his health,” she replied truthfully enough. “But I fear he will not walk again. How is your case?”
His face was filled with concern. “Not walk again! Then his recovery is only very partial?”
“I am afraid that is almost certainly so. But please, I should prefer not to speak of it. We cannot help. How is your case going? Have you heard from Venice? Is Monk learning anything useful?”
“If he has, I am afraid he is so far keeping it to himself.” He indicated the chair opposite, and then sat at the corner of the desk himself, swinging his leg a trifle, as if he were too restless to sit properly.
“But he has written?” she urged.
“Three times, in none of them telling me anything I could use in court. Now he is off to Felzburg to see what he can learn there.”
It was not only the total lack of any helpful news which worried her, but the anxiety in Rathbone’s eyes, the way his fingers played with the corner of a sheaf of papers. It was not like him to fiddle pointlessly with things. He was probably not even aware he was doing it. She was unexpectedly angry with Monk for not having found anything helpful, for not being there to share the worry and the mounting sense of helplessness. But panic would not serve anyone. She must keep a calm head and think rationally.
“Do you believe Countess Rostova is honest in her charge?” she asked.
He hesitated only a moment. “Yes, I do.”
“Could she be correct that Gisela murdered her husband?”
“No.” He shook his head. “She is the one person who did not have the opportunity. She never left his side after his accident.”
“Never?” she said with surprise.
“Apparently not. She nursed him herself. I imagine one does not leave a seriously ill patient alone?”
“As ill as he was, I would have someone in to be with him while I slept,” she replied. “And I might well go to the kitchens to prepare his food myself or to make distillations of herbs to ease him. There are many things one can do to help certain kinds of distress once a patient is conscious.”
He still looked slightly dubious.
“Meadowsweet,” she elaborated. “Compresses are excellent for both pain and swelling. Cowslip is also good. Rosemary will lift the spirits. Cinnamon and ginger will help a sick headache. Marigold rinse will assist healing of the skin. Chamomile tea is good for digestive troubles and aids sleeping. A little vervain tea for stress and anxiety, which she might well have benefited from herself.” She smiled, watching his face. “And there is always Four Thieves’ Vinegar against general infection, which is the great danger after injury.”
A ghost of a smile crossed his face. “I have to ask,” he admitted. “What is Four Thieves’ Vinegar?”
“Four healthy thieves were caught during a plague,” she replied. “They were offered their freedom in return for their recipe for their remedy.”
“Vinegar?” he said with surprise.
“Garlic, lavender, rosemary, sage, mint with a specific amount of mugwort and rue,” she answered. “It has to be measured very exactly and made in a precise way, with cider vinegar. A few drops are sufficient, taken in water.”
