She nodded, though she’d lost her appetite. “Gunpowder tea and toast, thank you. Then I’ll return to Father’s business.”
28
No one will gain all without having lost all.
Madame Guyon
“Allow me to send for Dr. Blair,” Mrs. Ravenal said to Leith from the doorway of his bedchamber. “Your cold has taken a turn for the worse and your cough is alarming. It could well become a pleurisy of the lungs.”
“I’ve had worse.” Leith tried to reassure her without sputtering. “If I keep to my room, I should be well by the time I sail.”
But he was beginning to wonder. He couldn’t actually recall a time he’d lain listless this long. Not in recent memory. Various fevers and maladies often laid his colonial factors and storekeepers low, but he shrugged such ailments aside, never thinking any would slow him.
His hostess went away and sent up a servant to bring him broth and toast. Nauseous, Leith told him to set it on the small table near the hearth. Ravenal had brought more books while he was sleeping. They were stacked on his bedside table beside a decanter of well water within easy reach. Henoticed Swift’s satire was missing. Had his host removed that blasphemous book? In its place were Thomas àKempis, Watts’s hymns, and other edifying works. Leith’s momentary amusement veered to concern.
Did Ravenal think his illness mortal?
To prove otherwise, he pushed back the bedcovers, his bare feet meeting the carpet whose intricate red pattern swam before his eyes. The effort brought an instant sheen of sweat. Dampness lined his brow and wet his nightshirt. Another coughing fit seized him, ending with an unforgivable curse. Fixing his eye on the unappetizing tray a few feet away, he pushed himself up from the bed and grabbed for the bedpost.
He missed the mark as another dizzying wave rolled through him, and he fell headlong into blackness. His hearing was the last sense to fail him. The resulting thud shook the room if not the townhouse, accompanied by a sharp shattering of dishes.
Now early January, the snow melted and the weather began to clear. Could this be the answer to their prayers? The household made quiet preparations for their travelers, and Juliet sought out Loveday.
When she found her in their dressing room among their traveling chests, folding a gauze apron, she felt a flicker of panic. “What are you doing?”
“Preparing for Scotland,” Loveday answered brightly, as if this was naught but a pleasure cruise up the Potomac.
Juliet withheld saying Hades would be more welcome. She hadn’t told Loveday about her last bitter conversation with Mr. Buchanan. “I’ve not consented to Father’s scheme. We may not ever leave here.”
She gave Juliet a slight smile. “We must be prepared, just in case.”
“Do you truly want to forsake the only home we’ve ever known?”
“I want to make a fresh start somewhere.” Loveday reached for a fichu. “I want you to be away from Father’s business and all the things here that bedevil you. I want to see you free of headaches and the light returned to your eyes.”
True, her headaches were always present now in varying degrees. She was either getting one, getting over one, or in the throes of one. But it hardly equaled the suffering of the trio in the cellar.
Loveday went about the dressing room plucking ribbons and lace ruffles from a drawer. “I feel in my spirit the liberty of travel will soon be denied us.”
I feel in my spirit.It had been one of Mama’s sayings. Rarely had it been proven wrong. Pondering it, Juliet leaned into the doorframe and crossed her arms.
“I shan’t forget your favorite hat—the blue-flowered bergère with the Brussels lace.” Loveday took it from a hatstand and stowed it in a bandbox. “Never mind us. When will our guests be safely on their way?”
“Tomorrow, perhaps,” Juliet said, her unrest rising. “All is in readiness if the weather holds.”
At the sound of hoofbeats, Loveday paused her packing and looked toward the front lawn. Juliet stayed by the door. Father and Zipporah already?
“A post rider is turning up the drive.” Loveday leaned into a sunlit window, hands pressed upon the sill. “Oh my, I pray nothing has happened to the honeymooners—or Aunt Damarus.”
The very mention sent Juliet downstairs just as Hosea returned from outside, post in hand. She took the paper,thankful the wax seal wasn’t an ominous black, and passed into the parlor, Loveday on her heels. There she opened the post, spilling something onto the carpet.
“Oh my!” Loveday bent to retrieve it. In her open palm lay the miniature Father had given Mr. Buchanan. She sent Juliet a beseeching look. “Please, read it aloud.”
On tenterhooks, Juliet did so, the foolscap giving a crisp rustle.
Dear Juliet,
I am writing this letter against the wishes of Leith Buchanan but feel it prudent to inform you he is gravely ill. He is now under the care of Dr. Blair, who is not hopeful of his recovery. Since you parted on uncertain terms, he left me this miniature he had carried on his person,which I now return to you.
