Page 37 of Once a Scoundrel

“Dr. Howston didnotsend us.” Her mother’s mouth tightened. “And apparentlyhedidn’t know what to do either.”

She reached past the maid for the door and entered the room.

The stench of sickness caught Faith unprepared. She nearly gagged, her hand flying to cover her nose and mouth. But her mother hurried forward toward the bed, her years of experience tending to the sick in the villages and serving on the boards of hospitals in London had left her unsurprised by what greeted them. Yet the emotion in her glistening eyes showed her concern.

Mary Halstead lay on the bed. Beads of perspiration covered her red skin, and her dark hair hung tangled around her shoulders from tossing in troubled half-consciousness. Her face and lips were so pale as to be nearly white above the lace-edged neckline of her long-sleeved night rail. Her lips moved wordlessly in some fever-triggered hallucination, and she clutched at the covers as if clinging on for dear life.

Her mother pushed up Mary’s sleeve and bit back a muttered curse.

“Dr. Howston bled her, ma’am,” Polly offered helpfully, hesitantly approaching the foot of the bed.

“So I see.”

“He said them leeches suck the illness from th’ body, that they remove poisoned blood an’ disrupt the fever.” When her mother picked up one of the vials on the bedside table, the maid added, “Quinine pills, ma’am.”

She set them down and reached for the second vial. “Along with calomel. She’s been purged, too, then?”

“Yes. After the bleeding, to make certain all th’ poison in her was got rid of.” The maid’s voice took on an air of knowing authority and a hint of pride. “When she first came down wi’ the fever, I gave her some rhubarb root I’d prepared myself to purge her then. Dr. Howston said I most likely saved her life.”

“Good to know,” Mama muttered as she placed her hand on Mary’s forehead to gauge her temperature. “Because Dr. Howston most likely nearly ended it.”

The maid’s eyes grew round. “Ma’am?”

“Where’s the child?” Faith interjected, before Mama could say anything to make the poor girl feel worse. “The marquess said she has a son.”

“In the nursery upstairs, ma’am. Mrs. Bailey’s watchin’ over him.”

Mama solemnly met Faith’s gaze. “Go fetch him and Mrs. Bailey, but keep both of them out in the hallway, all right?”

“Yes, Mama.”

Faith snatched up Polly’s candle stub and hurried up to the nursery on the second floor. The child, who was no more than a year old, lay sleeping in his crib, while Mrs. Bailey snored from the chair beside him. Faith roused her, then took the sleeping toddler into her arms and carried him downstairs.

By the time she returned to the room, with the still-sleepy cook at her heels, her mother had already set the tiger off to fetch a bucket of water, stripped the covers from Mary’s body and was working on removing the night rail. But she’d also gotten caught up in an argument with Polly, who kept pulling the gown back into place.

“Ventilation is key,” her mother lectured, giving up on the night rail—for now—and moving to throw open the window to let out the stench of sickness and let in the cool evening air.

“Oh no, ma’am, you mustn’t!” Polly shrieked and rushed to the window to try to yank it closed.

Mama pushed the second window open, and Faith thought Polly might have apoplexy right there on the sash. “Don’t you ever open your windows?”

“Not at night, ma’am. Night air kills! Ever’one knows ‘tis true.”

“Not everyone.” While Polly was still fretting over the windows, her mother returned to stripping off the night rail until Mary lay naked on the bed, giving Polly a whole new set of worries. “But you open your windows during the day?”

“Of course.” Polly pulled the top sheet over Mary’s body to cover her, and thankfully for the young maid’s state of mind, Mama let it stay.

“And when the sun goes behind a cloud, do you rush to close all the windows?”

“No,” Polly answered uncertainly, wary about where the duchess was leading her.

“Why not, if the sun’s not shining then? So logically a lack of sunshine has nothing to do with the quality of the air. Now, fetch a stack of sheets from the linen.”

“Ma’am?” Polly was still reeling under the theory of night air being no worse than day air.

“We’re going to soak the sheets in water and cover her with them. We’ve got to bring down the fever or she’ll burn to death.” Just then the tiger carried the bucket of water past Faith and into the room. “Marcus, have John drive you back to the manor house and tell Mrs. Olsen that I need several buckets of ice. I’m certain the estate has an ice house.”

So was Faith, knowing the wealth of Elmhurst Park. Although this late in the year, she wasn’t certain there would be any ice left, no matter how well Stephen had repaired the estate.