She would have smiled at his uncharacteristic concern for her wardrobe, but the smell of sour, rotting fish was turning her stomach…
She took several steps to the nearest bucket, and a burningflood of bile exploded from her mouth. Several retches later, she realized she’d sunk to her knees, a glaze of sweat gathering in her hairline.
“Get her out of here,” Horace barked to no one in particular and hoisted Nora up with a strength she hadn’t felt in his bad arm since before she left for Italy.
“I’m not ill. It was just the smell,” she whispered.
“Out,” he growled. “And straight to bed.”
“You’re too old to take my weight like this. Put me down.”
His arms tightened. “I will if you lie for a bit. I don’t want you back in here until you’ve had a cup of tea. And kept it down.”
She glanced over her shoulder. Ruth, her expression just as severe as Horace’s, picked up the forgotten bowl of gruel. “Go on. I’ll look after this one.”
“Very well,” Nora conceded. “I’ll rest for a quarter of an hour.” Her stomach would settle after a piece of toast and chamomile tea.
“Half hour, at least,” Horace countered. He nudged the partition door with an elbow and coaxed her slowly into the hall.
“I didn’t realize you were this strong again,” she said, breathing slowly to fight the urge to vomit.
“The daily walks help. Sometimes I tackle the stairs at St. Paul’s.”
“Is that wise?”
“What do you think?” He grinned.
“Now you’re boasting.” She struggled to finish the sentence. She needed to close her eyes. He really wasn’t going to release her until he reached the sofa. And he didn’t look like ithurt him. “It’s just the pregnancy. It catches me unawares.” She sighed and reached out for the sturdy armchair.
“I beg your pardon?” a sharp voice rose from only feet away, startling both of them.
Nora whipped her head around, peering past Horace’s shoulder. Beneath a trembling ostrich feather was a stylish hat—and a face she dreaded.
Nora reviewed her last words, mouth dropping in horror. “Aunt Wilcox?”
“Pregnancy?” The woman’s eyes scraped over her face like claws, leaving her cheeks red and flaming.
Horace tightened his grip on Nora’s arm, holding her upright.
“I—I didn’t know you were here,” Nora stuttered.
“That’s quite obvious,” Aunt snapped. “Your Mrs. Phipps just went to tell you I arrived.” Aunt stood but took a step backward. “You look positively green. Which I would fear was the cholera if I hadn’t just heard with my own ears—”
“You shouldn’t be here,” Horace interrupted in gruff syllables. “We’re treating cholera in our ward. None of the patients come into the living quarters of the house, but I’d never put you in danger.”
“Only my nephew,” she sniffed, her eyes shifting uncomfortably at the mention of sick patients. “And his wife and now his future child…” Her words trailed off in disbelief. “How could Daniel allow this?”
“She’s overtired and expecting. Nothing else. She’s as safe as any of us.” It didn’t help that Horace’s voice faltered. They all knew that comparison counted for very little.
Cold dread swept over Nora’s body like a poison. She wrenched free of Horace’s arm and threw up into the nearest fern.
Aunt stepped backward again, almost stumbling. “This looks like cholera,” she said in horror, pressing a handkerchief to her mouth.
Horace pressed his hand to Nora’s forehead as he helped her into the chair. “She’s fourteen weeks along and had no breakfast this morning. It’s to be expected. No fever whatsoever.”
“Fourteen weeks?” Aunt repeated the words as if they were a foreign language. Her quiet voice grew sinister. “Do you mean to tell me you’ve known for months? And hidden it?”
Nora shut her eyes and exhaled. Trust Horace to cause a scene. “No, not that long.” She shook her head carefully. No sudden movements yet.
