And then he was gone, the consummate professional physician, except for that one dark-red lock that still fell in front of his left eye.
It was, she thought, her first taste of what life as a doctor’s wife might be like.
Twenty-One
Atall, thin woman opened the bedchamber door. The butler Andrews, having led Alasdair there, murmured something and walked away.
“I am Nurse Gastrell,” the woman said. Her eyes were pale, her brown hair flecked with gray.
“I am Dr. Alasdair Andrews. I understand yer mistress asked to see me.”
Nurse Gastrell stepped aside from the door and allowed him to enter the room.
The drapes were closed but myriad candles and lamps burned so that the room was almost blazing. The smell was not foul, as it was in many sick rooms. There was a fresh green smell, quite like rosemary, in the room. Alasdair took heart from that.
Alasdair followed the nurse farther into the room.
A small figure lay in the bed. So small that Alasdair’s imagination almost led him to believe it might be a child-bride until he drew close enough to see the lines in the woman’s face. She might be the same age as Alasdair. She might be older.
The woman was blonde but her hair was thin and patches of her scalp showed through. Her eyebrows were so fair as to be invisible. She opened her eyes as Alasdair approached the bed, and he could see her eyes were blue.
“Lady Morpeth, I am Dr. Alasdair Andrews,” he said and bowed.
“You are Scottish?”
“Aye.”
“My butler told me that there was a physician here in the house. I decided I should consult you. But how do you come to be here? I heard from my nurse that there is a snowstorm raging.”
“I was on my way south with ... uh, my wife when the snowstorm came up. We asked for refuge, and yer husband was good enough to provide it.”
“It is our luck then that you landed on our doorstep.”
“’Twas lucky for us, I assure ye. There is a dangerous amount of snow.”
The entire time they had been talking, he had been taking note of her skin, her breath, the look of her eyes.
“Tell me about yer illness, my lady.”
“I am a chronic invalid, Dr. Andrews.” She sighed and looked at the ceiling. “I have been ever since my husband married me. I have consulted countless physicians. None of them know the cause of my illness. That, however, has not stopped them from subjecting me to many cures. Cures, I believe, that have worsened my condition, rather than improving it.”
“What are yer symptoms, my lady?”
“Diarrhea, abdominal pain, headaches. Sometimes I am, apparently, delirious. Sometimes my vision changes.”
“Fevers?”
“None.” This was from Nurse Gastrell, who was standing in the corner, watching him.
“Can ye eat?”
“I could until recently. I have been vomiting of late.”
“Yer monthly courses? What are they like? When was the last one?”
Lady Morpeth looked at her nurse who shrugged.
“They are ... scant, I believe, as compared to other women,” Lady Morpeth said. “But I cannot remember the last time I bled, Doctor.”
