When Anne returned with the bottle, she said, “Please summon one of the doctors. Or send Toby to do so.”
Rosa nodded and hurried away.
Lady Celia was racked by convulsions for another twenty minutes before the nausea subsided long enough for her to keep down the chalky bismuth-and-charcoal tonic Anne had given her.
Then she began wheezing instead, struggling to draw sufficient air. Anne helped the limp woman sit up on the floor and rest her back against the bedframe, her countenance transitioning from pale green to blue, especially around her lips. Anne counted the woman’s rapid pulse and began to worry in earnest. She prayed too and hoped Rosa would return with the doctor soon.
She had expected—hoped for—experienced Dr. Marsland, but instead Dr. Finch hurried in, somewhat out of breath, Rosa on his heels.
He quickly knelt beside the woman. “What did she ingest?”
“She thinks there was shellfish in her beef broth. She has had violent reactions to shellfish in the past although she insists her cook knows better than to serve it. She vomited several times and is now struggling to breathe. Her pulse is very rapid.”
He nodded. Pulling a bottle from his brown leather medical bag, he administered a syrup of milkweed for her constricted throat. Milkweed was known to lessen inflammation and relieve breathing difficulties. Anne was impressed he knew to use it. Such remedies were often familiar only to apothecaries, or in her father’s case, a surgeon-apothecary. Anne resolved to procure some of the syrup for her own medicine case at the first opportunity.
“Come, my lady. Let’s get you back into bed,” he said. He and Rosa gently assisted the frail woman to her feet and into the bed. Anne hurried to settle the bedclothes over her, for now the woman was racked with chills as she continued to wheeze.
Anne built up the fire while Dr. Finch lit a lamp to diffuse mullein into the room and set it on Lady Celia’s bedside table to further ease her throat and lungs. Rosa went to find an extra blanket.
“Do you want me to summon your daughter?” Anne asked the suffering woman. “Or at least let her know?”
Lady Celia vehemently shook her head.
After another half an hour, the woman’s labored breathing finally eased and she fell back against the pillow and closed her eyes, clearly exhausted.
“She’ll need clear liquids after that,” he said. “Of course not the broth she had earlier.”
Anne nodded. “I’ll go down now, if you will stay with her?”
“I will.”
Anne went down the many stairs until she reached thekitchen. The workrooms were quiet except for a young maid washing the last of the dishes in the adjacent scullery, and the kitchen maid perched on a stool, eating a late-night piece of pie. Anne asked her where she might find Mrs. Pratt.
“In her room, miss. Just gone to bed.”
“Which room is hers?”
“Second on the right.”
“Thank you.” Anne went to the door and knocked.
She heard a heavy sigh from within, followed by, “Yes? Come.”
Anne entered.
Mrs. Pratt looked up, still fully dressed, and rose. “Oh, Miss Loveday. Did not expect you. Just about to turn in for the night. Worn off my feet.”
“I understand. I imagine you are much busier with two men now in residence who probably eat a great deal more than Miss Fitzjohn and her mother do.”
“True. Especially with Lady Celia feeling poorly. No appetite for some time now.”
“Speaking of that ... Lady Celia has been violently ill for the last hour or so. She thinks shellfish might have somehow found its way into her beef broth. I know you are careful, but—”
“Oh no! God forgive me, I never thought it might somehow foul the broth.”
“What do you mean?”
“I haven’t made anything with shellfish in years. Lady Celia can’t abide it. I haven’t even had any in the house. But with Mr. Jude home ... Well, lobster soup is one of his favorites. I truly didn’t think it would cause any harm, with Lady Celia not coming to the table, and her all the way up in her own room. I can’t think how it would have happened. Surely not through the air?”
