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  Mary blinked, aghast. “Bar me from the room if you like, but it won’t keep me from going in to see him.”

  “He’s in no condition to be seen by a lady. We—we’re afraid to move him, you see.”

  “You underestimate me, Mr. Starrett. Lead the way.”

  Too exhausted to argue, he acquiesced with a nod and opened the door.

  Fingers steepled against her lips, Mary followed the two men into the room.

  Darkness greeted her. A sweltering room of black. As her eyes tried to adjust to the wane light of a single candle, she struggled to breathe. The room was oppressive. Heavily brocaded curtains covered all windows, shutting out both light and air circulation. The smell of death hung in the air, causing her to fan her fingers over her nose and mouth.

  Mrs. Georgina Starrett sat at the bedside, needlework in her lap. Mary focused on Duncan’s mother, afraid to look at the bed.

  The woman set her work on the table and walked over, pulling a startled Mary into her arms. “You can take my seat,” she said, releasing Mary and indicating the chair.

  Glancing at her brother, who nodded, Mary walked to the bedside. She sat, smoothed out her dress, clasped her hands, and kept her eyes trained on the edge of the bed, steeling herself to look up.

  Time suspended as she followed the covers upwards, catching sight of a bare arm exposed. Her heart raced. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath. The hammering of her pulse in her ears did little to still her nerves. She clenched her fists.

  When she opened her eyes, she looked straight at Duncan.

  There were no words to express her shock.

  He looked…normal.

  His chest rose and fell in slumber, a wondrous sight given it marked him alive and well, despite the room resembling a tomb. Even with him in such a vulnerable state, her breath caught at the sight of him. He lay in a laudanum-induced sleep, his chest bare above the covers. A dusting of dark hair covered his chest all the way to the hollow of his throat. Across the expanse of skin, scars decorated the muscles, the tell-tale signs of a soldier who met with bayonets, swords, and bullets. His flesh glistened in the candlelight with a layer of sweat.

  His expression was relaxed, his eyes closed with long lashes dark against his skin, and a week’s worth of beard on his cheeks. Why had no one shaved him? Why were they keeping him drugged? He was not even dressed. The Duncan she knew would not want to be bedridden and forced to sleep. He would not want stubble on his cheek.

  Further inspection of him revealed the numerous wounds on his forearm from the scarificator. She covered her mouth and closed her eyes, ill at the thought of him being bled. Barbarous.

  Mary did not care how unseemly it was for her to see his bare chest, for her to sit at his bedside, or for her to touch him. She forgot her week of anger and resentment at his betrayal. All she knew was this was Duncan and he needed her. She clasped his limp hand in hers and laced their fingers.

  Looking up to the figures gathered at the end of the bed, she demanded, “Why is nothing being done for him?”

  Mrs. Starrett stepped forward, her hands resting on the foot of the four-poster. “We’re doing all we can. That’s my boy, Lady Mary, my baby boy. We’re doing all the physician tells us to do.”

  “To the devil with the physician,” Mary cursed, shocking those in the room. “Nothing’s being done except draining him of life. Why is he being given laudanum? I’m sure he wouldn’t want that.”

  This time, Mr. Starrett spoke, his arm around his wife’s waist. “You don’t understand. He’s suffering. When he wakes, he’s delirious. We’re doing what we can, my lady.”

  “We can’t leave him like this, drugged and bled. We must do something,” she protested, feeling increasingly frantic at her helplessness.

  She did not doubt his parents were doing everything they could and feeling as helpless as she, but lashing out seemed the only course of action to ease her distress.

  Her brother cleared his throat. “If I may, I’d like to bring a medical expert of my own.”

  All eyes turned to Drake.

  “My cousin is something of a genius when it comes to medical needs,” he said.

  Mary stared in confusion. There were no physicians in their family. The only cousins she knew of were the Earl of Roddam and his sister the Lady Collingwood.

  Drake continued, “She and her family are visiting her brother for a few months, not but fifteen miles from here. I could bring her as early as this afternoon or as late as tomorrow.”

  Mr. Starrett rubbed a hand to his chin. “She? It’s against the Crown for a woman to practice medicine.”

  “Ah, yes, well, she’s not a physician. She’s a midwife, actually, a former midwife at that, but you’ll not meet a keener medical mind.”

  “See here, I’ll not have an unqualified woman looking to my son,” the colonel argued.

  “I understand your concern,” Drake said, calm to the colonel’s increasing agitation. “The way I see it, you can continue to trust the butchers, or you can trust me. If I’m mistaken, and she can’t help, what was the harm?”

  Mrs. Starrett leaned in to whisper to her husband.

  After a brief exchange of lips to ears, Mr. Starrett crossed his arms over his chest and said, “I’ll be present for the examination or she doesn’t see him.”

  Early the next morning, Lady Lilith Hobbs, Baroness Collingwood, accompanied her two cousins through drizzling rain to Cois Greta Park. Her spine was straight, her lips pursed, and her attire plain—a medical professional off to see a client.

  Mary did not know her cousin Lilith well. Though Lilith’s brother, Sebastian Lancaster, the Earl of Roddam, had spent a good deal of time at Lyonn Manor over the years, Mary had met Lilith for the first time barely four years ago. The deceased earl had sent his daughter to an orphanage when she was quite young. Mary was not surprised given how her own mother treated her. Women did not contribute to the family, she had always been told. They were a drain on the finances and a burden until married. It was any wonder she had not ended up in an orphanage, as well.

  Mary had not been present when Drake rode to the castle to inquire if the baroness could assist. As unlikely as it seemed that a former midwife could do anything in favor of a soldier with a war wound, Mary did not deceive herself in believing there was hope beyond Lilith. One physician was like any other. Perhaps a woman’s perspective was what Duncan needed.

  They arrived at the house just as the heavens opened to turn the drizzle into a downpour. Rushing inside, they took a moment to compose themselves under the ministrations of the butler and the watchful gaze of Mr. Starrett, who eyed Lilith with narrowed lids and a frown. That he would even allow a woman to examine his son, much less an unqualified one, showed his desperation to help Duncan.

  To everyone’s surprise, Lilith marched straight to Mr. Starrett without waiting to be introduced and held out her hand like a man. The colonel stared at it in hesitation before resigning to shake it.

  “How do you do, Colonel Starrett? Let’s dispense with the formalities and social delicacies befitting our stations and talk business. From this point forward, you will refer to me as Lilith. I feel this a necessity because I’m about to become very familiar with your son’s body.”

  The colonel blanched and flicked a horrified look at Drake.

  “As I’m sure you already know, I have no formal medical training as a physician, such is the plight of my gender, but I do have a great deal of experience with anatomy and physiology. I believe your son may be beyond the realm of my expertise, but I’m here to do what I can. Please, take me to him.”

  Another glance to the duke, and Mr. Starrett led them upstairs. The room was exactly as it had been the day before. The only difference in Duncan’s appearance that Mary could ascertain was new marks on his forearm from bloodletting. A wave of nausea threatened. Her brother tucked
her arm under his and patted her hand.

  “There can be no doubt,” Lilith said, hands on her hips, “that a physician has been here.” She scoffed and strode to the first set of curtains, yanking them aside to fill the room with the leaden light of a rainy sky.

  “What are you doing?” Mrs. Starrett stammered, rising from the bedside. Her voice was pinched, her tone panicked.

  “If you expect me to examine him, I can’t very well do it in the dark, now can I? These curtains are to remain open from this point forward. Darkness will not save your son. I will be most cross if I arrive here tomorrow to find them closed again.”

  “Tomorrow?” Mrs. Starrett walked around the bed, watching in horror as Lilith went from one window to the next, flinging open curtains.

  “I may not be able to help him, but you’ve brought me here to do what I can.” Looking about the brightened room, her eyes fell on the sleeping figure. “If he has a valet, please send for him. I’ll need his help in moving Mr. Duncan Starrett during the examination.”

  Simultaneously, Mrs. Starrett and Mary spoke.

  “Move him? But you can’t move him!” Mrs. Starrett cried.

  “Colonel Sir Duncan Starrett, not mister,” Mary said.

  Lilith looked from one to the other then over to Mr. Starrett. “I need everyone to leave the room except the valet. I’d like to do my examination now.”

  “I’m not leaving,” Mr. Starrett answered, his arms crossed, his brows furrowed. “And I don’t like the sound of you moving him. We’ve taken great pains not to disturb him.”

  Smoothing her hands down her dress, she took a moment to breathe before saying, “You may stay, but if you say one word during my assessment without first being asked a question, I’ll have you removed. Now, if you please, fetch the valet.”

  Mr. Starrett glowered at the duke before snorting his displeasure and walking to the dressing room to ring for the valet. Before the fellow arrived, everyone single-filed out of the room.

  Mrs. Starrett looked from Mary to Drake and said, “I hope she knows what she’s doing.”

  Not knowing how long the process would take, the trio made for the upstairs parlor and called for a tea tray, though no one did more than take a few nibbles. Mary certainly could not eat a bite. Her nerves were frayed.

  Drake attempted conversation. Mrs. Starrett answered in monosyllabic witticism. Mary did not answer at all. How could anyone talk at a time like this?

  The mantel clock ticked the progress of time, but Mary was unaware of how much time passed. Well over a half hour. Perhaps not a full hour. The tea was cold, the treats forgotten.

  The parlor door finally opened to a frowning Lilith and a silent colonel. All in the room stood.

  Lilith held her hands to her side, palms out. “I’m a former midwife, not a physician,” she said.

  They waited for more.

  When she heaved a sigh, Drake circled his hands in the air to prompt her to continue.

  “I’ve found something. I don’t know what it is or if it’s the cause of his paralysis and numbness. It is not at the site of his surgery, though it is within inches of the scar. On his lower back, in line with his spine, is a concerning swelling. There is light bruising, but it is the swelling that is troubling. I believe, in my unqualified opinion, that whatever is causing the swelling is compressing his spine, thus numbing and paralyzing his lower extremities.”

  Mary pressed her hand to her chest. “So, you can heal him?”

  Lilith’s frown deepened. “I don’t know what’s wrong to do the healing.”

  “But you just said—”

  “I said my hypothesis based on a brief observation, nothing more. I would like to invite my personal physician from Hampshire. He oversees our foundling hospital and is the only physician I have ever trusted. It could take up to two weeks for him to arrive, but if I send for him, he will come.”

  “What are we supposed to do until then?” Mrs. Starrett asked, not looking the least comforted.

  “Feed him real food, bathe him, and shave him.”

  Incredulous, Mary wanted to laugh. Was this to be their saving grace? She did not wish to doubt her cousin, but this was madness.

  “I will come every morning for one hour,” Lilith said. “I would offer more time, but my son is only six months and needs me on hand. There will be no more gruel, but instead meaty dishes. I want to speak with him, but I believe you might be right to administer the laudanum until my physician arrives. I’ve left instructions with his valet to prepare a bath and shave him. I don’t care if it takes ten men to carry him and five to bathe him, it will be done. How do you think he feels to wake each day to find himself in such a state? Be gentle when moving him, but I believe it’s safe to do so.”

  Chapter 7

  The sound of green was a clashing cymbal, blue a resonating B-flat. Hoofs against the clashing cymbal of meadow grass shaded hues. With each hoofbeat, purple puffs of smoke rose, mingling into a muddy grey clock face.

  Duncan slowed Caesar to signal to his companion, his arm arcing in a ray of tangerine. Joining Duncan, his companion grinned, the sound like clinking glass.

  He was back with his regiment, some of his closest companions riding alongside him, camaraderie renewed. It was a day such as this that fueled his love for the army. This day embodied his passion—a respected leader, surrounded by familiar and trusted faces, riding across the countryside, seeing the sights, feeling the earth beneath his horse’s hoofs. Without questioning why she was present, for it made perfect sense in paradise, he was pleased to find Mary riding with him, dressed in a riding habit that looked remarkably like that of his lieutenant colonel.

  He never wanted to leave. He never wanted to return home. Here, there was no pain, only his men, the countryside, and his love, all together in a sea of symphonic color and hued sound. Even the air was visible, an undulating azure.

  Mary sat sideways on the horse, as though seated in a chair, a peculiar expression on a haloed face. Angel wings, gossamer, shown behind a wreath of candlelight.

  He heard them before he saw them—snarling, gnashing, ripping, the stench of death in their wake. A glance down and he saw, where his horse had been, not the purple of hoofs or the cymbal of grass, but the faces of soulless soldiers clinging, climbing, grappling at his lifeless legs. Bound by sheets, he thrashed, pleading for mercy. All he could do was wait to be devoured.

  In a moment of lucidity, he recognized the effects of laudanum wearing off. A nightmare was coming, horrors he could not face. Oh, sweet Angel of Mercy, I cannot face it. He begged, he thrashed, he cajoled until a liquid the sound of red and color of a creaking door met his lips, and he was back in the meadow with Caesar beneath him, Mary riding at his side, his men singing in chorus.

  From her horse, Mary reached a hand to clasp his and did not let go, a lifeline.

  A voice broke through the clouds, deafening.

  “Turn him onto his front. Gentle. Yes, that’s it.”

  Duncan had been lounging by the river, Mary playing the harp, his men grazing with the horses, when the voice interrupted. All in his meadow looked to the clouds, aware of the intruder.

  “After the clot is drained, movement and feeling should be restored,” said the man in the sky.

  Clot? Movement? Feeling? Duncan rose from the riverside, cupped his hands, and shouted up to the man, a sound not unlike a groan, though he articulated his words with the eloquence of a king.

  The response was not directed to him.

  “How much did he drink? He’s coming to,” the voice said.

  Who? Who was coming? Duncan brandished his sword, readying for battle. This was his paradise and no one else’s. He signaled for Mary to get behind him. The river overflowed from the edges of the bank, bubbling and churning, lapping at Duncan’s feet, a tickle of cold water against his soles.

  Tossing
his sword aside, the voice forgotten, he splashed in the water, enthralled by the sensation of grass, rocks, and waves under foot. He twirled his love into a merry dance.

  Morning sun slanted across Duncan’s face, a cool breeze tickling his cheeks. He opened his eyes to see the coffered wood canopy of his four-poster. He dared not move.

  A chill shivered through him. Clammy skin prickled into gooseflesh. Disoriented in time and space, afraid to discover if this was a dream or reality and which version of dream or reality he would face, he closed his eyes again.

  His name was Duncan Sean Freeman Starrett. His rank was Colonel. He was a baronet.

  There were no demons, no dead soldiers, no meadow, no talking clouds.

  This must be reality. If true, then had he dreamed the whole of it, or was his worst nightmare about to be confirmed?

  Fear gripped him with a stranglehold on his heart. He gulped desperate breaths of autumn air wafting in from the open window.

  It could have all been a dream. All could be well. Just a wriggle of the toes could confirm it was all a dream. He could not bring himself to do it. Never had he been so afraid of anything. In this moment, reality was suspended. If he could hold onto this moment forever, he would. In this moment, he did not have to face the truth.

  The truth that his life was over.

  Living was not done from a bed. What of Bernard? He could not raise the boy from a bed. What of Mary? He could not marry her from a bed. What of his new home? He could not run an estate from a bed. What of his regiment? He could not lead them from a bed.

  His mind rifled through everything in life that brought him pleasure—Caesar, horse riding, his family, dancing, Mary, swimming, an endless list that required the use of his legs.

  A sob ripped through his throat, then another. Covering his face with his arm, he wept, his body racked with convulsive heaves until nausea swept over him. He rolled onto his elbow and wretched over the side of the bed.