Randolph said sternly. “It is my belief that the sure way to deplete a fever is through vigorous bleeding and withholding excessive liquids, the better to draw away the morbid humors. The canary in which the laudanum is mixed is more than sufficient to supply his lordship’s base needs, and more fortifying than mere water as well.”
“Yet surely a patient’s comfort must be paramount to his recovery, Sir Randolph, mustn’t it?” she asked, pouring a glass of water from the pitcher on the near table. “The ancient monks who built their abbey here chose this spot for the purity of the water rising from a deep spring, and our water continues to this day to be famously restorative. I cannot help but think that his lordship might benefit from it as well.”
Harry agreed. The more she spoke of this miraculous water, the more thirsty he became, and he longingly watched the water splashing into the glass in her hand.
But Sir Randolph was not happy with her, not at all. “Miss Augusta,” he began irritably. “Miss Augusta, I must ask you not to interfere with the treatment of my patient, and I—”
“Damnation, Peterson, I am dry as the Sahara,” Harry interrupted, “and I want the water.”
Sir Randolph shook his head. “My lord, I cannot condone this, not when you are in such a delicate and perilous state.”
“I can,” Harry said. “And I will have the water.”
“My lord,” Sir Randolph said. “I have undertaken your care because of the acquaintance I have for His Grace your father, and if anything should go awry because of—”
“I’ll answer for my father,” Harry said, “and explain to him, too, if necessary. Miss Augusta, the water.”
Sir Randolph nodded curtly, admitting defeat, or at least admitting that the Duke of Breconridge would be more inclined to take the word of his son than that of his physician.
Gus didn’t gloat, but simply brought the glass around the bed to Harry. He struggled to sit up, mortified that he was too weak to do so. Without hesitation she slipped her arm around his shoulders to help him upright, then tipped the glass against his lips.
“There, my lord,” she murmured. “Slowly, now. I won’t have you drown and prove me wrong.”
She didn’t need to caution him. As thirsty as he was, he meant to take his time so that he had could have her close like this, her arm so gentle around his shoulders that he could almost pretend it was an embrace rather than a necessary support. Beneath the slanting brim of her flowered hat, her round face was solemn, concentrating on his swallowing.
The sheer foolishness of that hat with its jaunty pink silk blossoms cheered him enormously, a bit of frivolity in his present grim circumstances. He could see her freckles, too, scattered across her full cheeks and over the bridge of her nose like dappled sunshine. He’d never thought of grown women having freckles; he supposed other ladies must cover them with powder, yet apparently Miss Augusta didn’t bother, or care. He was glad she didn’t.
He held her gaze after he was done, long enough that her cheeks pinked and she quickly looked away.
“That’s enough for now,” she said, beginning to lower him back against the pillows.
“Excuse me, Miss Augusta,” Mrs. Patton said with the usual medical sternness, “but it’s time for his lordship’s draft.”
She stepped forward with the now-familiar invalid’s dose of canary ready in her hand. She’d thoroughly ruined canary for him forever. It wasn’t just the association with pain and laudanum, but her officious manner as she loomed over him, like some overbearing female raptor in an apron swooping down upon him. Having her appear now in place of Miss Augusta was worse still, and he realized he’d had enough. He’d spoken up against Sir Randolph. Now it was Mrs. Patton’s turn.
“Give the glass to Miss Augusta,” he said. “I’d rather take it from her.”
Mrs. Patton scowled and looked to Sir Randolph for
“Yet surely a patient’s comfort must be paramount to his recovery, Sir Randolph, mustn’t it?” she asked, pouring a glass of water from the pitcher on the near table. “The ancient monks who built their abbey here chose this spot for the purity of the water rising from a deep spring, and our water continues to this day to be famously restorative. I cannot help but think that his lordship might benefit from it as well.”
Harry agreed. The more she spoke of this miraculous water, the more thirsty he became, and he longingly watched the water splashing into the glass in her hand.
But Sir Randolph was not happy with her, not at all. “Miss Augusta,” he began irritably. “Miss Augusta, I must ask you not to interfere with the treatment of my patient, and I—”
“Damnation, Peterson, I am dry as the Sahara,” Harry interrupted, “and I want the water.”
Sir Randolph shook his head. “My lord, I cannot condone this, not when you are in such a delicate and perilous state.”
“I can,” Harry said. “And I will have the water.”
“My lord,” Sir Randolph said. “I have undertaken your care because of the acquaintance I have for His Grace your father, and if anything should go awry because of—”
“I’ll answer for my father,” Harry said, “and explain to him, too, if necessary. Miss Augusta, the water.”
Sir Randolph nodded curtly, admitting defeat, or at least admitting that the Duke of Breconridge would be more inclined to take the word of his son than that of his physician.
Gus didn’t gloat, but simply brought the glass around the bed to Harry. He struggled to sit up, mortified that he was too weak to do so. Without hesitation she slipped her arm around his shoulders to help him upright, then tipped the glass against his lips.
“There, my lord,” she murmured. “Slowly, now. I won’t have you drown and prove me wrong.”
She didn’t need to caution him. As thirsty as he was, he meant to take his time so that he had could have her close like this, her arm so gentle around his shoulders that he could almost pretend it was an embrace rather than a necessary support. Beneath the slanting brim of her flowered hat, her round face was solemn, concentrating on his swallowing.
The sheer foolishness of that hat with its jaunty pink silk blossoms cheered him enormously, a bit of frivolity in his present grim circumstances. He could see her freckles, too, scattered across her full cheeks and over the bridge of her nose like dappled sunshine. He’d never thought of grown women having freckles; he supposed other ladies must cover them with powder, yet apparently Miss Augusta didn’t bother, or care. He was glad she didn’t.
He held her gaze after he was done, long enough that her cheeks pinked and she quickly looked away.
“That’s enough for now,” she said, beginning to lower him back against the pillows.
“Excuse me, Miss Augusta,” Mrs. Patton said with the usual medical sternness, “but it’s time for his lordship’s draft.”
She stepped forward with the now-familiar invalid’s dose of canary ready in her hand. She’d thoroughly ruined canary for him forever. It wasn’t just the association with pain and laudanum, but her officious manner as she loomed over him, like some overbearing female raptor in an apron swooping down upon him. Having her appear now in place of Miss Augusta was worse still, and he realized he’d had enough. He’d spoken up against Sir Randolph. Now it was Mrs. Patton’s turn.
“Give the glass to Miss Augusta,” he said. “I’d rather take it from her.”
Mrs. Patton scowled and looked to Sir Randolph for