Page 41 of A Momentary Marriage

“James, I’m going to see about more medicine. I’ll be gone for a bit, but Owen will be here with you. He’ll take care of you.” His eyes didn’t open; she couldn’t tell if he was asleep. Fear tugged at her stomach. What if his life slipped away while she was gone? “I’ll be back as soon as I can. And Dem is outside the door.” Impulsively she bent and pressed her lips to his forehead.

“Please sit with him, Owen,” she said as she pulled on her gloves. At his quick nod, she went on, “It’s best if he sleeps. You might want to close the door to, um, shut out any noise.” And discourage visitors.

It was a lovely spring day, but Laura was too wrapped in her worrisome thoughts to look at the view outside the carriage. It was much too early to be making a call, but that social solecism weighed little compared to seeking help from the wife of the man Laura had loved for much of her life.

Laura liked Abby. Indeed, when they had met by accident, unaware of who the other was, they had chatted like good friends. Abigail seemed a reasonable, fair person, but the heart didn’t always follow one’s head.

No matter how much Graeme loved his wife now, it did not change the fact that the first years of their marriage had been bitter—and his thwarted love for Laura was the reason he had turned away from his new bride. Any woman would find that hard to forgive.

So it was with some trepidation that Laura entered the front door of Lydcombe Hall. The Parr family’s imperturbable butler, Fletcher, gave no indication that he found such an early morning visit odd, merely bowed and said, “Miss Laura. Lady de Vere, I should say. We are most grieved at the news of Sir James’s illness. Lady Montclair—Lady Mirabelle, that is—is still abed, but I will tell her you are here.”

“No, it’s not Mirabelle I’ve come to see. It’s Abigail.” Laura hesitated. “If, that is, you think she would not mind.”

Something like a smile lurked in the butler’s eyes. “Indeed, Lady Abigail is, ah, quite at ease with informality.”

Laura followed him upstairs to the sunny sitting room overlooking the rose garden. Within moments, Abigail rushed into the room. She was still clad in her dressing gown, a dramatic blue satin robe reminiscent of a Japanese kimono, richly embroidered, her black hair hanging in a loose braid down her back. In her arms, she carried a small bundle.

It was impossible not to be struck anew by the other woman’s beauty. Tall and statuesque, with vivid green eyes and thick black hair, Abigail Parr was stunning. But now her face was creased with concern as she said, “Laura? What’s happened? Is James—”

“No! Oh, Abigail, no. I’m sorry; I didn’t think. I should have told Fletcher that James is . . . not worse. I didn’t come here about—well, I did, but—oh—” She raised her hands to her face and realized they were trembling. “I’m sorry. I’m not making sense.”

“Come, sit down. You must be terribly distressed. I’ll ring for tea. Or would you like coffee? The staff has given in to my American love for coffee.”

As she came closer, the bundle emitted a squeak and stirred, and Laura saw that the object in Abigail’s arms was a baby wrapped in a blanket. An arm emerged, knocking back the blanket to reveal the rest of her. “Oh! I didn’t realize. Is this—”

“Anna,” Abigail said, beaming, and turned, tilting her so that Laura could see the infant better.

“My goodness.” Laura peered down into the perfect features. All white and pink and dimpled, with a thick shock of black hair and huge blue eyes, the baby stared back up at Laura. “She’s beautiful.”

“Would you like to hold her?” Abby extended her toward Laura.

“Could I?” A smile lit Laura’s face. “Oh, yes, if you don’t mind.” Laura settled the baby carefully into the crook of one arm, brushing a finger across Anna’s petal-soft cheeks. “Such black hair . . . and those eyes. Graeme must be over the moon.”

Abigail chuckled. “He is already tightly wrapped around her little finger. I’m certain he’ll be the most doting father ever.”

“I can see why.” The girl took a firm hold on Laura’s dress, making cooing noises. Laura bent her head closer, breathing in the sweet scent of baby. “She looks like you.”

“Do you think so? Graeme says she does, but I can’t see it—except for the hair, of course, but Graeme and his mother have dark hair, too.”

“Yes, but . . . I can’t identify it, really, but there’s something of you in her little face.” Laura raised her head, smiling at the other woman, and received a warm smile in return. Perhaps talking to Abigail would not be as hard as she feared.

At that moment, the baby’s nurse bustled in to take Anna back to the nursery for a change, and Laura handed her over somewhat reluctantly. The butler, with his usual efficiency, had not waited for Abby to request refreshments, but swept in now with a tray of coffee, tea, and rolls.

Laura, unable to eat anything before she left, was suddenly starving. Abigail sipped a cup of coffee, waiting until Laura had consumed an air-light croissant before she spoke. “I’m glad to hear that James is not worse. But something must be amiss.”

“Yes. I’m very sorry to barge in like this so early, but I—” Laura drew a shaky breath. “I need help.”

“What can I do?” Abigail set down her coffee and leaned forward. “What do you need?”

“I think—I fear someone is trying to harm James.” Abby gaped at her, and Laura rushed on, suddenly fearing that Abby would not believe her. “I found mercury in James’s medicine.”

“Mercury?” Abby looked even more astonished. “Quicksilver?”

“Yes. Do you know anything about it?”

“My father owned part of a quicksilver mine in California. I think they used it to extract gold from the ore.”

“There have been doctors who prescribed it for some ailments. But not for a cough. I dropped a bottle of his tonic, and there was mercury in the liquid. That’s not all.” Her story poured out—the discovery of the pan beneath James’s bed, Laura’s fears, her father’s cases. “It’s very dangerous; one only has to breathe the vapors. It doesn’t even have to be heated.”