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Yet his lighthearted and joyful mood had one damper—the news Morgan had disclosed last night concerning Joan’s birth.
He took a deep breath and leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he considered the quandary. It mattered not to him that she was not titled by blood, but it did put pressure on him that made him consider the best option for her.
Unlike the proposal, information about her birth wasn’t a question he could pose to her. Once he spoke the truth of it, there was no taking it back—no unrevealing what had been revealed.
He considered his own reactions if the situation were reversed. Would he want to know? Yes. Likely he would. Did the truth change anything? No. It didn’t.
He twisted his lips as he considered anything that could be gained from telling her the news. He couldn’t think of any benefits from knowing. However…the one thought that plagued him was the truth that in knowing something but keeping his silence, he was in a way choosing to be dishonest. And should the truth ever come to light, and she discovered that heknewanddidn’ttell her, that would be far more damaging than any other aspect. It could cripple their friendship, their relationship. And that possibility was a risk too great.
It was settled; he would tell her. The only question left was when? He was still mulling that over when he stepped from the carriage once it stopped in front of his house.
“Your Grace.” His butler met him at the bottom of the stairs leading to the front door. “The doctor is waiting for you in your study,” he stated softly, but with purpose and intention.
Rowles met his stare, nodded once, and entered the house, his steps purposeful as he turned to the study door.
“Doctor,” Rowles greeted his visitor, his earlier elation evaporating at the haggard appearance of the man.
“Your Grace.” The doctor bowed, then paused.
“Did something happen?” Rowles asked, his impatience gnawing at his mind.
The doctor nodded. “Your Grace, I think it is best for you to come and see your mother. There was…an event this morning that—”
“What happened?” Rowles asked with a clipped tone, needing more information than was being offered.
“She overdosed on laudanum,” the doctor admitted quietly, as if whispering of the news would soften the blow.
“How?” Rowles asked, his heart pounding with understanding. Laudanum in any excessive dose was lethal.
The doctor took a deep breath. “This morning, when the nurse was administering the usual dose, your mother…took the bottle quite forcefully. We were able to…stop her… She swallowed enough that we are uncertain she will survive, Your Grace.” The doctor let out a tense breath.
“I’ll leave directly.” Rowles turned on his heel and left the room. His carriage was still in front, and he directed the driver to his mother’s residence.
As the carriage lurched forward, he rested his head in his hands, taking deep breaths through his nose and easing them out through pursed lips. It wasn’t the fault of the staff, he reasoned. But anger welled within him regardless. Anger at the staff, anger at his mother, and anger at himself. He couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that if he had been there, or had not removed her from her home, or any of other various things, she would not have taken such measures.
And did she even know?
Had it been intentional?
She’d said she would die there… Was that prophetic or was it a choice? Laudanum overdose had been a plague and scourge across England, with many succumbing to the opiate’s power and allure, overdosing both intentionally and unintentionally. Wretched stuff, both medicine and poison in the same bottle, able to help life and take it.
Even though the distance wasn’t far, time passed slowly. When the carriage slowed in front of the house, Rowles quickly stepped out, straightened his coat, and walked to the already opening door. The footman’s expression was crestfallen with a tinge of fear lurking below the surface.
The house was deathly silent.
As if every servant, every nurse was holding their collective breath.
As if he were the judge, jury, and executioner.
Something broke in him, in that moment.
They were not at fault.
No.
His shoulders slumped under the weight of it, and he took the stairs to the second floor toward his mother’s rooms. The cinnamon and clove scent of laudanum was strong in the hall, reaching his nose before he got to the door.
As if sensing a question, a stout older nurse whispered, “When we tried to take it away, it spilled on the floors…and us, Your Grace.”
