“Of course, miss. But your hair…it needs another clip…”
“Never mind that,” Bridget said, picking up a hair clip and shoving it in place to secure her bun. “I must go to Jane now.”
Guilt gnawed at Bridget as she made her way to Jane’s room. With all the commotion the day before, she had neglected to check on her friend. She knocked softly on Jane’s chamber door, and her lady’s maid, Rose, answered.
“Oh, Miss De Lacey. I was hoping it were Mr. Harley with the doctor.”
“How is she?” Bridget asked.
“Poorly, miss.” Rose opened the door, and Bridget stepped inside. A stench of sickness assailed her nostrils. And she covered her nose with her hand. “Do open a window,” she said.
“I’m afraid to, miss,” the maid said, “lest the air do her harm.”
“Harm? When did fresh air ever do anyone harm?” Bridget drew open the curtains and opened the windows, welcoming the blast of crisp air to her nostrils.
Then she turned and smiled, prepared to cheer Jane. But her smile quickly faded when she saw her friend’s deathly pale face. A chamber pot sat next to her bed, filled with sick.
“Take that away,” Bridget snapped, “and bring her a clean one.”
Jane groaned. And Bridget went to her side.
“It started last night, miss,” Rose said. “We thought it were just because of the babe. You know, some women can’t hold their food when they are with child, like my cousin every morning for months, but this is different, miss. She looks…I don’t know…I’m afraid for her babe.”
“Yes, I know,” Bridget said. “I am too. But we must do what we can, and the best thing you can do now is to take that away and get a clean, cool cloth for her forehead.”
“Yes, miss,” Rose said.
Bridget caressed her friend’s forehead. It felt clammy and sticky. Then she noticed that Jane’s fist was clenched shut. She was holding something in the palm of her hand. Bridget caressed Jane’s fist, and Jane’s fingers relaxed. Bridget eased them open. Inside Jane’s palm lay the miniature portrait of George.
Bridget gasped.
Just then, Rose opened the chamber door and Jane heard her say, “Doctor, thank heavens.”
Bridget snatched the miniature and stood up. Dr. Elias, Nate, and Jane’s husband, Mr. Harley, entered the room.
“How is she?” Mr. Harley glanced down at the chamber pot Roseheld and winced.
“Poorly, sir,” Rose said. “She complains of horrible stomach pains. An’ she hardly touched her tea. A few sips were all she could manage to wet her parched throat.”
“I’d better take a look.” Dr. Elias pushed past Rose, followed by Harley and Nate.
“Miss De Lacey,” Harley said as Bridget scurried out of the way. “Good of you to come. You’ll be a great comfort to Jane.”
“I came as soon as I heard,” Nate said to Bridget.
She squeezed the portrait in her fist as she watched Dr. Elias start to examine Jane. And although he was Jane’s husband, Mr. Harley turned his back and went to gaze out the window with Nate by his side. That was a good thing, Bridget realized, because she almost bit her lip to shreds when Jane’s body started to convulse. Thankfully, it only lasted seconds.
Why does Jane have George’s portrait? What can it mean?
Dr. Elias finished examining Jane and looked up with a grave expression on his face. “Sometimes a woman with child suffers nausea and sickness, and in rare cases, it becomes so severe that it can kill her.”
Harley gasped, and Bridget turned to see Nate put a comforting hand on his shoulder. Bridget forced herself to keep her composure, even though she wanted to collapse to the floor.
“I don’t think that is the case here.”
Bridget breathed a sigh of relief.
“I think she’s been poisoned.”
