Josephine hurried down the stairs toward her. Emma lowered her head, doggedly trying to take each step. But then, her mother-in-law came to her side. “Do you need a servant to carry you?”
Emma shook her head. She took one step, then another.
“What happened to him?” Josephine asked. “My daughter said something about a book?”
“I think the diary poisoned all of them,” Emma said. “Your husband, then Finn, and now Cormac. It must have been something in the paint on the cover. We covered it with a handkerchief, in case we need to know what was in it—but we need to be rid of it.”
“Dear God,” the dowager said dully. “They read that book all the time. There was a bookbinder who tried to fix the binding, years ago, but it didn’t work. The original paint was always coming off, so I paid him to add that green cloth binding.” Her voice grew tremulous. “He was so proud of a new method he was developing. I watched him add a special powder to brighten the green paint.” She let out a slight moan. “It—it’s my fault that they died. And I accused my own sister when she did nothing wrong.”
“I think Nuala will forgive you if you apologize,” Emma said. “Right now, if you can. She may know a way to help Cormac before the physician arrives.”
“I will,” the dowager agreed.
The stairs seemed to spin, and Emma paused to try and catch her balance. “It’s beginning to make sense now. He didn’t have the diary on our journey here or in the cottage. I think that’s why he got better.”
“But we need to know for certain,” Josephine said.
“I agree. We should have someone test the paint,” Emma suggested. “And the physician should treat him for poison. I hope now he will never get sick again.”
She continued up the stairs with Josephine at her side. The dowager remained at her side and said softly, “You really do care about my son, don’t you?”
“I love him,” Emma admitted. “And I never cared about whether he had a title or any wealth. Even if he had nothing but the shirt on his back, it would be enough for me.”
Josephine rested her hand on Emma’s back, guiding her upstairs. “I wasn’t fair to you or kind when you arrived at Dunmeath. I am sorry for it.”
“You were only trying to protect him,” Emma said. She was grateful for the apology, for it meant they might truly begin to have a friendship between them.
“Does he know you’re blind?” Josephine asked softly.
Emma froze at the words, startled that the woman had guessed. It must have been avoiding reading Josephine’s list that had finally given her away. “I’m not fully blind,” she said slowly. “But yes, he knows. And he’s never made me feel less of a person because of it. He’s good to me.”
“He has a big heart, does Cormac,” she said. “As do you, I suspect.”
To Emma’s surprise, when they reached the top of the stairs, the dowager reached out and embraced her. The familiar scent of verbena enveloped her, but it gave her such a sense of hope that she hugged the woman back.
“I’ll help you,” Josephine promised.
The physician was already returning, and he hurried up the stairs past them. Emma walked with the dowager into Cormac’s bedchamber, but after she told the physician what she suspected, all she could do was sit and pray.
Chapter Thirteen
“Drink,” a woman’svoice bade him.
Cormac felt as if his insides were raw, and the warm tea was soothing. It tasted odd, but the honey made it go down easier.
When he opened his eyes, he saw Nuala on one side of him, Emma on the other. His mother stood on the far side of the room, her hands clenched together.
“Cormac,” Emma murmured, taking his hand. In her eyes, he saw hope, and he tried to squeeze her hand.
“What happened?” One moment, he had been searching his grandfather’s diary for names, anything to discover a connection—and the next, he’d awakened here. He vaguely recalled being forced to drink something and the horrible nausea and sickness he’d suffered.
“You were being poisoned,” Emma said. “By the diary.” She went on to explain their theory about the book. He remembered how, years ago, the diary had been given to a German bookbinder who had offered to repair it for his father, the earl. Apparently, the bookbinder had covered the leather in cloth that had been soaked in green paint—paint that was brightened by a powder.
“Every time you read the book, you were touching poison,” Emma said. “Your mother and sisters weren’t affected by it because they never read it. And I touched it by accident that day.”
Her revelation made sense, though he’d never expected such a thing. But he’d read the book frequently in London, for it had brought back good memories of his father, grandfather, and brother. Thinking back, it did seem that the moments he’d been sick had followed the times when he’d spent an hour reading.
“The physician treated you for poisoning, and Nuala made some tea to ease your pain. I believe that you’re going to be well now.” Emma’s eyes brightened, and he felt the same sense of hope.
