“I don’t see why not. It’s not as though either Mamma or I shall need a lady’s maid tonight.”
“Very well,” he said. “In that case, I shall stay.”
An hour or so later, after Rosa had gone to Valley View Lodge and returned to let him know all was well in hand there, Dr. Finch sat in one of the two armchairs near the fire. In the bed, Lady Celia slept on, her body clearly taxed by the surplus of digitalis as well as the measures taken to counteract it.
Anne brought him a blanket. “You know where the water closet is, I believe, and I’ve left a towel and extra teeth cleaning supplies for you. What else do you need?”
“I will be fine, thank you.”
“I am sorry about this. I truly don’t think I gave her more than prescribed, but I can’t prove it.”
“I know you are careful and diligent, Miss Loveday. Perhaps when Lady Celia is more herself, she might remembersomething that will help us figure out how it happened ... not with an eye to blame, but to avoid another such occurrence, for her sake as well as yours.”
Anne nodded, grateful for his compassion and encouraging words.
She said, “It is good of you to stay, especially when I know you have ... responsibilities at home.”
He nodded. “That’s all right. We’ll all manage. For one night.”
“Anything I can do to help, just let me know.”
“Thank you, Miss Loveday.”
Anne returned to her own room, changed into a nightdress, unpinned her hair, and lay down. But thinking of him in the next room, sitting in one of the armchairs all night, Anne could not sleep. She rose again, wrapped her dressing gown around herself and stepped back into Lady Celia’s room.
The patient slept on while Dr. Finch sat reading by firelight and the low light of the green-shaded lamp. He’d removed his cravat but was otherwise fully dressed. At her step, his head lifted, and his gaze followed her, lingering over her nightclothes and the long plait of hair hanging over one shoulder.
“I’ve just had another listen,” he said softly, “and her heart and pulse are stable and her breathing regular. Go to sleep, Miss Loveday.”
“I don’t feel right, you sleeping in a chair. You could have my bed, and I could sleep in the dressing room. I can’t put you in there, in case Lady Celia should need the commode in the night, but I could sleep there.”
“Kind of you to offer, but I don’t think it would be ... quite the thing ... to sleep in your bed.”
Anne felt heat rush to her face. “I suppose not.”
He nodded toward the second armchair near the fire. “You might ... sit with me for a time.”
Anne hesitated only a moment. “Very well.”
He offered her the blanket.
“Keep it. I’ll find another.” She retrieved one from her room and then sat in the armchair near him.
They were quiet for a time, staring into the fire, and then he said in a low voice, “This must be especially difficult for you. Miss Fitzjohn mentioned you nursed your own mother before she passed. Could you ... tell me about it? About her?”
Anne hoped Miss Fitzjohn had not told him to cast more doubt on her capabilities. At the moment, Anne felt too weary to defend herself even if she had.
“Mamma developed consumption. My father and I tried everything. Some people recover, you know, so we held out hope. But ... no.” Anne shook her head, willing away the awful memories, her mother’s white skin, haggard breathing, and coughing.
“May I ask what treatments were attempted?”
Anne nodded. “Of course we made sure she had plenty of rest, fresh air, and wholesome foods. We gave her cod liver oil, vinegar rubs, and inhalant gases to ease her lungs. We tried ointments and decoctions of aconite, water dropwort, sulfur and calcium hydroxide, and more.
“Father wanted to send her to Italy, where the mountain air is supposed to be beneficial. But she refused to go so far away from us. Plus, with the war on...” She shook her head. “Father could not leave his practice for too long, so Fanny and I went with her to the mountains of the Lake District instead.”
Anne remembered the disappointment that any small improvement they had seen, or imagined, had proven to be only temporary. “Sadly we saw no lasting benefit. My father then tried bleeding and purging a few times, as physicians often prescribe, but it only served to weaken her further, so we desisted. He considered trying hemlock as an inhalant, but Idiscouraged him. He also read an article by a Scottish doctor about a possible surgical treatment, partially collapsing one lung to allow it to rest. But I talked him out of attempting such a risky course. I regret that now.”
“Ah yes, an artificial pneumothorax. I read Carson’s treatise about that myself.”
