Page 67 of The Duchess Audition

His voice had a worrisome rasp to it, the sclera of his eyes more yellow than white, his skin sallow.

“I might ask you the same question,” she replied, her tone harsher than she had intended. “Why was Doctor Stanforth here?”

“He was… recommended to me,” Bernard answered, his face tensing as if in pain.

Marina narrowed her eyes. “For what purpose?” She pushed into the hallway. “What is wrong, Uncle?”

“It is nothing,” he wheezed, turning. “A trifling bout of sickness, that is all.”

She folded her arms across her chest and stared him down, her heart aching. “Do not lie to me, Uncle. You of all people; do not lie to me.” Her voice hitched. “I can see, plain as day, that something is wrong. If you will not tell me, then I shall run after the doctor right this minute and demand to hear it from him.”

As she waited for him to respond, she assessed him as best she could through sight alone. The yellowing of his eyes suggested a malady of the liver or with his bile. The same could be true of his off-color complexion.

“I do not want to concern you with all of this,” he said, at last, with a wave of his hand. “It is nothing.”

She shook her head. “It is not nothing! What is wrong? Tell me now, I beg of you.”

Had she not lost enough? Did he not understand that she had been helpless to assist her parents, but she had spent twelve years preparing for a moment like this?

“I can help,” she urged, reaching for his hand.

It was cold and clammy, the chill of it sinking deep into her bones, rousing her anxieties.

“You had best come through to the parlor,” he relented with a sigh, leading the way.

Once they were settled in twin armchairs by the fire, roaring despite the warmth outside, Marina stared at her uncle expectantly. If he thought she could be comfortable while he was clearly suffering from something, then he was sorely mistaken.

“It began with some pain, perhaps half a year ago,” he started to explain, his gaze turned toward the flickering flames. “Pain up here by my ribs.”

He gingerly touched the spot, his brow wincing.

“I thought it was some indigestion or an effect of sitting hunched all the time over my books,” he continued. “Then, I began to feel rather poorly. I could not eat, I was weary regardless of how much I slept, and the pain kept worsening.”

Marina’s heart lurched. How could she have missed such signs of illness in her own uncle? He had seemed entirely like himself… aside from his sudden insistence that she ought to find herself a husband.

No… Oh, please no…

“It has only been the past few weeks that my skin has turned rather yellow. My eyes too.” He sighed heavily. “I did not want to worry you.”

“Well, you should have!” she rasped, her eyes stinging. “I can fix this. I can… look through my books and concoct something to help. Clearly, there is something wrong with your liver. I am certain I can make something to help you, if not cure you.”

There was a particular book in her collection, a rough translation from a physician in China that she was convinced could hold some answers. The trouble was, most of the ingredients were either impossible to get hold of, or would take an age to arrive.

Then again, there were also secret books from ancient healers, women like her, that had not failed her yet.

“Doctor Stanforth has already suggested some medicine,” Bernard replied. “Truly, you do not need to fret over me. I shall be well enough soon.”

Marina leveled a hard stare at him. “If that were true, if you actually believed that, then you would not have sent me out into society to attain a husband.” Her breath caught in her throat, as she quickly brushed a tear from her lashes. “You were preparing me for a future without you, without bothering to consult me.”

Guilt spread across her uncle’s face, and he withdrew into himself, dropping his chin to his chest as if they had switched roles. It was all the confirmation she needed, and it broke her heart to learn that he had shouldered such a burden alone.

“Admit it,” she urged, her voice cracking.

Bernard raised his head, looking utterly defeated. “I did not want you to be left alone. I did not want you to have to rely on your cousin’s generosity, for we both know that he is a spoiled beast. Truly, his mother’s son.” He mustered a grim chuckle. “But I did not want you to carry any worries with you as you entered society. I could not tell you, dearest niece; I did not know how.”

“I shall make a tonic,” she told him firmly. “I shall… make something with milk thistle and… and licorice root. Some garlic, perhaps, and… oh, what else? Turmeric, of course, if I have any left, and…”

Bernard sighed. “Do you not think I have tried all of that, my dear girl?”