Eversham nodded. “It seems to break down in more or less the same way following a trauma—a blow, for instance—as it does in a number of other, quite different maladies. The point is, my lord, your mother evidently suffered a severe concussion, which it is impossible to inherit.”
He took up one of the sheets containing Gwendolyn’s notes. “Furthermore, Her Ladyship has detected in you none of the usual symptoms of brain degeneration. That is not surprising, since there are none to detect.”
Eversham eyed Dorian assessingly. “You are remarkably fit,” he added, “especially for a member of the upper classes. Your brain is in excellent working order. Both your penmanship—evidencing superior motor control—and the logical and orderly presentation of highly personal and emotionally-laden information leave that in no doubt.” He returned his attention to the sheet in his hand. “She reports no lethargy or fatigue. No restlessness or sleeplessness. No difficulties with attention to detail and concentration—as your proposal for the hospital clearly demonstrates.” He cleared his throat. “And it would appear that the reproductive functions are—er—functioning.” He looked up, smiling. “I congratulate you, my lord. That is a pleasant event to look forward to, is it not?”
His Lordship had only just managed to digest the matter of a concussion he could not possibly have inherited. It took him a moment to catch up with the rest, during which he stared stupidly at Eversham.
It took another moment to force the words out. “What are you saying?” he asked, dazed. “Look forward to—? I have—You have—” He thrust his hair back. “Haven’t you overlooked something? The things. The—the ‘visual chimera’—‘first you see stars, then the pain hits.’ Physiological phenomena, common to a host of neurological ailments, my wife said.”
Eversham nodded. “Indeed, quite common. Among others, these are classic symptoms of migraine headache. That, I collect, is what’s ailing you.”
“Migraine?” Dorian repeated. “As in . . . ‘megrims’?”
“Not merely headache—which is what most people mean by ‘megrims’—but severe, debilitating headaches. Still, they’re not fatal, for all that.”
“You are telling me,” Dorian ground out, “that all this time . . .” His face heated. “All these months, I have been playing bloody tragic hero—and all I’ve got is a bleeding, damned headache?”
Eversham frowned and returned the paper to the pile with the rest and straightened them, while Dorian listened to the silence stretch on and wondered what would come to fill it. Eversham had just said they were headaches. Not fatal. Why then, was he hesitating?
GWENDOLYN HAD THOUGHT she heard Dorian’s voice, but when she reached the library door, all was quiet within. She opened it for a quick peep to be sure.
At that moment, another, equally familiar masculine voice broke the silence.
“I wish I could say otherwise, my lord, but the ailment is incurable. Though it has been studied for centuries, it remains a medical enigma. I have never yet encountered two cases precisely alike. I am not sure I can even promise you relief, which I deeply regret, for I know it is murderously painful. And I cannot promise that it will not be passed on to your offspring, for there is strong evidence that it is an inherited predisposition.”
A choked sob escaped her.
Two masculine heads swiveled sharply, and two gazes—one blue, one golden—shot to her before she could retreat.
“Oh,” she said. “I do beg your pardon. I did not mean to interrupt.” She hastily shut the door . . . and fled.
Gwendolyn ran blindly down the hall, yanked the front door open, hurtled through it and down the steps—and ran straight into Bertie.
“I say, Gwen, where are you—”
She pushed past him and hurried to his gelding, which one of the stablemen was leading away.
She snatched the reins from the groom.
Bertie hurried up to her. “I say, Gwen, what’s happened?”
“Give me a lift up,” she said tightly.
He bent and clasped his hands together. “Don’t tell me Cat’s gone and bolted again,” he said as he hoisted her up. “I thought he’d get on well enough with Eversham, and I was just setting out to let Dain know, when I seen you turn into the drive and never was so astonished in all my life. You were supposed to be in—”
“Gwendolyn!”
Bertie swung round. “There he is, Gwen. Ain’t gone after all. What was you—”
“Let go of my foot, Bertie.”
He let go, but Dorian reached them in the same moment and caught hold of the bridle. “My dear, I don’t know what you—”
“I am a trifle . . . out of sorts,” she choked out. “I need . . . a ride. To clear my head.”
“What you need is a cup of tea,” he said soothingly. “I know it was a shock to see Eversham, but I—”
“Oh, I wish he’d never come!” she cried. Her voice shook, and her eyes filled. “But that is silly, I know. It is always better to know . . . the facts. And you have made me . . . so happy—and I love you—and I shall love you always, no—no matter what h-happens.” Her voice broke then, and with it the last shred of her control. She wept, helplessly, and when he reached up and grasped her waist and lifted her down, all she could do was cling to him, sobbing.
“I love you, too, sweet, with all my heart,” he said gently. “But I do believe you’ve got this backwards.”
“No, I heard,” she sobbed. “I heard what Eversham said—and he knows. He’s a p-proper doctor. Incurable, he said. Kneebones was right and I was wrong, and I should have known b-better.”
“Backwards, indeed,” Dorian said as he threaded his fingers through her hair. “The London experts, Borson, and Kneebones all got it wrong. So did I. You knew better than any of us. I feel like an utter dolt. But your Mr. Eversham says my brain is functioning and one cannot inherit concussion, and so I collect you are stuck with me—and my confounded megrims—indefinitely.”
She lifted her head, and through her tears, she saw the truth glimmering in his golden eyes. “M-m-megrims?”
“Migraine, he calls it,” Dorian said. “Providence has played you another joke, I’m afraid. You came all this way to nurse and comfort a dying madman in his last wretched months, and advance the cause of medical science by studying his fascinating case . . .” He smiled. “And you wound up with a perfectly healthy fellow with a boring old headache.”
She reached up and stroked her husband’s hair back, blinking at him through the tears that continued to fall though she no longer had anything to cry about. “Well, I love you anyway,” she said.
She heard the gelding snort, and looked round to see the groom leading the horse to the stables and a worried-looking Bertie hurrying back to her and Dorian.
“By Jupiter’s thunderbolts—I say—Good gad, Cat, what’s happened? What’s she bawling about? I never seen Gwen do that before.”
“It is perfectly normal, Bertie,” Dorian answered while he gently stroked her back. “Your cousin is going to have a baby. It makes her emotional.”
“Oh. Well. Oh, that is—I mean to say—Oh, yes. Jolly good. Indeed.” Gingerly, Bertie patted her head. “Well done, cuz.”
“And you may be godfather.” Dorian drew back to peer into her face. “That’s right, isn’t it, sweet?”
Gwendolyn gave a watery laugh. “Oh, yes. Of course Bertie will be godfather.” She let go of Dorian’s lapels and wiped her eyes.
“And you shall have a lovely hospital, with a lovely new physician with modern ideas,” her husband told her as he gave her his handkerchief. “And we shall make tiresome old Kneebones go away, so that he can’t interfere or make obstacles or quarrel with sensible people. We shall send him as private physician to the dithering old Camoys ladies at Rawnsley Hall. If their own quacks and patent medicines haven’t killed them by now, it’s unlikely Kneebones can do t
hem any harm.”
She laughed again and wiped her nose—which was probably as red as her hair at present, she thought. And her hair must be a sight as well, judging by Bertie’s expression.
“There, you see?” Dorian told him. “She is practically herself again.”
Bertie was still eyeing her dubiously. “She’s all red and splotchy.”
“She simply needs time to . . . adjust,” Dorian said. “It turns out, you see, that Gwen will be stuck with me for—oh, heaven only knows how long. Poor girl. She came all this way to comfort a dying madman during his last tragic days—and now—”
“And now it turns out that all Cat’s got is a headache,” Gwendolyn said. Her voice was still wobbly. She steadied it. “It’s only megrims, Bertie.”
Her cousin blinked. “Megrims?”
“Yes, dear.”
“Like Aunt Claire’s spells?”
“Yes, quite like my mama.”
“And Uncle Frederick? And Great Uncle Mortimer?”