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She and Hannah quietly entered Delia’s room. The maid had carefully tucked a coverlet around her and was now adjusting the curtains at the window to dim the light. “Anything else I can get, miss?” the maid quietly asked Lavinia. “It’s right sad to see Miss Weston like this. Such a sweet one with the children, her and Mr. Drake, and kind to the rest of us too.”
“Thank you,” Lavinia said. “I think you’ve done everything you can for now.”
The maid bobbed a curtsy and left.
Hannah placed a small wooden chair next to the bed. “Sit, Lavinia. You look about as pale as poor Delia here.”
Lavinia sat. The maid had set Delia’s hands on the coverlet, one atop the other. She looked like she’d been laid out for a funeral.
“It’s my fault, Hannah,” Lavinia murmured. “I told her and Artie about leaving Alderwood, and then this happened. I should have known better. Delia hasn’t been herself the past few days. I should have realized it and said something different or waited or—oh, I don’t know—butsomething.”
“Don’t go blaming yourself, luv.” Hannah laid a comforting hand on Lavinia’s shoulder. “Delia knew we was going to Primrose Farm sooner or later. She’s small, is our Delia, but she’s a fighter. Actors have to be. You know that as well as anyone.”
Lavinia gazed sorrowfully upon Delia’s still form. “I hope you’re right, Hannah. Oh, I hope you’re right.”
* * *
“What in blazes is it taking the doctor so long to get here?” Lucas muttered. “He should have arrived by now. Sit, Drake; you’re going to wear out the carpets with all that pacing.”
The old man sat. He began wringing his hands. His breathing escalated. It was driving Lucas mad, sitting here, doing nothing, watching Artie when what he wanted to do was go to Lavinia’s side. Unfortunately, he couldn’t—he and Artie had to keep vigil outside Delia’s room.
Lucas’s frustrations, however, were nothing compared to the agony Artie was going through. The poor man was beside himself with worry. If Lucas hadn’t already figured out how much Artie loved Delia, it would have been obvious to him now. Lucas sighed. “Never mind. Pace if it makes you feel better,” he said.
Artie immediately popped up out of the chair and proceeded to pace again.
Lucas dropped his head into his hands and shut his eyes—at least this way he could block out the back and forth, back and forth of Artie’s movements.
“Right this way, Doctor Ellis,” Lucas’s mother said from farther down the corridor.
He and Artie both heaved an audible sigh of relief. Lucas rose to his feet.
Dr. Ellis, whom Lucas had never met, was a relatively young man with a kind face. Lucas wanted to trust that he could actually do something to restore Delia to her prior good health, but he’d seen enough sawbones and quacks in Spain that he held little faith in doctors of any kind. It had frequently seemed to Lucas that more of his friends had died from complications after being seen by a surgeon than had died in actual combat.
“My son Lucas and Mr. Drake,” Lady Thurlby said, presenting them to the doctor. “Lucas, Dr. Ellis was a godsend when he set up practice here after old Dr. Vickers passed.”
“Delia’s in here,” Artie blurted out. “Can you help her?”
“I shall do my best,” Dr. Ellis replied.
Dr. Ellis entered Delia’s room. Lucas, his mother, and Artie clustered just inside the doorway to watch. Lavinia stood and moved out of the way, and Hannah moved the chair Lavinia had been sitting in so the doctor could examine Delia.
He felt her forehead, listened to her heart, raised her eyelids one at a time to look at her eyes—all the things physicians always seemed to do when evaluating the health of a patient. He seemed respectful in his approach, for which Lucas was grateful. Lavinia and Artie—and probably Hannah too—would have attacked the man, teeth and claws bared, had he been the least bit severe in his methods.
He listened to her heart again.
“Hmm,” he said.
“What is it?” Lucas’s mother asked.
“I’m not sure,” Dr. Ellis replied. He tapped his chin in speculation. “Her heart is weak, certainly, but not unexpected, considering her age. She has no fever that I can detect. We could try bloodletting and see if she improves—”
“No bloodletting!” Artie cried. “Delia hates blood, even when it isn’t real—” His mouth snapped shut.
Lucas’s mother looked at Artie curiously, but the doctor only shrugged. “I’m not generally an advocate for bloodletting myself. I’ve been exploring the use of herbs in my practice, but that is a discussion for another day.”
“No bloodletting,” Artie said again.
“As you wish,” Dr. Ellis said.
