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Let us discover together, my boy, if she can be trusted or not.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Dense fog rolled across the lawns of the Stadley Estate, slithering through the trees of the woods in the distance, encroaching on the manor like an omen that Marina would have done anything to chase away.
It resembled an army of ghosts, coming to claim one of their own… or perhaps Marina simply needed some sleep and to eat more than a sandwich whenever she remembered she was hungry.
She drew away from the window and sank down on the chair by her writing desk, papers and notebooks spilling everywhere. Snapped quills littered the floor, ink smudged across every available surface, crumb-scattered plates piled up alongside many a cup of forgotten tea.
Picking up her newest quill, she dipped it in the inkwell and began to write, her tired hands protesting each swirl and swoop of her handwriting.
Day Six.
Swelling has reduced in joints and abdomen.
Slight fading of the jaundice. Still present in eyes but not so much skin.
No pain in abdomen, except at night.
Patient complained of headache and nausea, but kept the tonic down. Have increased dose to three drops of tincture twice a day and three cups of tea thrice a day. Standard teacup.
Patient has some confusion but is sleeping and eating well. Soups and bland foods only.
She stared at what she had written. It seemed so little for all the work she had done, and not at all the swift miracle that she had prayed for.
A knock at the study door made her jump, the nib of her quill scratching a line across the page.
“Apologies,” came Doctor Stanforth’s voice. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
She turned, flashing him a tired smile. “I just thought I saw ghosts in the fog. Everything is making me jump at present.”
“Where I hail from, people are always wary of the fog,” he told her, taking a hesitant step into the room. “How are you faring?”
She shook her head, unable to find the words.
“He is improving,” the doctor said encouragingly. “Considering the severity of his illness, we cannot expect a quick recovery. We cannot even expect him to be cured, but if this grants him a few more months, years even, then what you have done is a miracle.”
A tight laugh escaped her throat. “It is going to be expensive.” Her voice faltered. “And he is so stubborn that he will tell me not to bother, eventually. I would ask Anthony for assistance, but I cannot.”
“What happened between the two of you?” The doctor paused, blinking. “Apologies, that was rude of me. It’s none of my business. It is just that he is a friend of mine, and… I got the feeling that he rather liked you and that all was well between you.”
“I love him,” she admitted quietly, “but he wants nothing to do with me.”
Stanforth edged closer. “Whyever would you think that?” He stopped. “Sorry, I’m doing it again.”
She mustered a more genuine laugh. “I suppose all physicians—healers, rather—are nosey. If we were not, we would not want to know how everything works and hear of everyone’s most embarrassing ailments.”
He chuckled at that. “You have a point there.”
Turning back to the mess of her desk, she wished she had some notes among her papers that might have told her where she went wrong. Was it agreeing to the marriage in the first place? Was it keeping her promise to her uncle instead of telling Anthony everything immediately? Was it thinking that he liked her in return? Was it thinking he might understand, even without all of the details?
“I broke the terms of our agreement,” she said, slotting her quill back into a jar that bore the withered husks of its predecessors. “I had duties and I neglected them.”
“For your uncle?”
She nodded. “Even so, I did not do what I said I would.”
“Surely, he understands,” Stanforth insisted. “He is not an unreasonable man. Somewhat mistrustful, certainly, but I find it hard to believe that he would shun you because you were helping your uncle.”
