“You said you’d take care of everything, you little turd!”
“I will, but not now.”
“You can’t go! You can’t leave everything and bolt just because—”
“Bernard, I don’t have time for this,” Radford said. “I’ve ordered a post chaise. Pull yourself together, will you? I’m needed much more urgently in London than I am here.”
Bernard peered owlishly at him. “My dear little Raven’s in a taking. Not your venerable pa, is it?”
“Not yet,” Radford said tightly.
“A woman, then,” Bernard said, grinning. “Why, Raven’s got a sweetheart, what do you know?”
“Cousin, you’ve had enough drink for this week,” Radford said. “You need a bath. You’re thirty years old. Grow up!”
Bernard refilled his glass. “Well, then, if you’re going to be a bleeding little nagging nursie about it, go on. Go to London. And be damned. But take the traveling chariot. And take Harris as postilion. You’ll get there faster.” He emptied the glass and started to fill another, but the decanter was empty. “And you!” he shouted at the footman standing by the door. “Get me something to drink!”
Radford went out.
Stopping only to change horses and let Harris take refreshment, Radford reached Kensington by Friday afternoon. Lady Exton’s porter eyed him up and down, his expression dubious. Radford’s other self wanted to knock him down. He was finding it more difficult than usual to thrust that self away and observe the situation coolly.
The fact was, he looked disreputable. He was unshaven and rumpled. He’d stopped briefly at his parents’ house to wash his face. He hadn’t changed his clothes. No servant wishing to keep his place would let a man in Radford’s state in to see anybody without express permission.
As it was, he only contrived to get into the house by saying he’d come straight from the Duke of Malvern. His other self winced at using his cousin’s title to open doors even while that overemotional being stormed about in a frenzy of impatience to see Clara. Radford ignored him as best he could.
The porter sent for a footman, who took his time accepting Radford’s card and walked out of the vestibule in the most provokingly unhurried manner.
Radford exerted enough self-control not to knock the man down and walk over him. Instead, he told himself to calm down, and settled for pacing the small antechamber he was taken to. If the footman came back to say Lady Exton was not at home, then Radford would knock him down.
After an interminable wait, the footman returned and showed Radford into a drawing room. Lady Exton’s pallor and state of distraction told him the maid hadn’t exaggerated.
“I must see Lady Clara at once,” he said.
“Certainly not,” Lady Exton said. “I’ve sent for Dr. Marler again. He’ll set her up in no time.”
“I’ll lay you odds he’s never seen a case of typhus,” he said.
“Typhus! My grandniece? Have you taken leave of your senses?”
“I can make a strong case for the diagnosis, but we haven’t a moment to lose,” he said. “Even if your physician has experience of the disease, he’s likely to kill her—with the very kindest intentions and volumes of medical wisdom to prove the rightness of his course. He’s bound to bleed her, which even some of the most benighted of his benighted profession know is unwise in these circumstances.”
He wanted to strangle the oaf of a doctor. It was bad enough for Radford to have lost a day, when every minute counted. It was worse knowing that every minute of the lost time left Clara vulnerable to others’ ignorance and prejudices.
“And you’ve medical training, have you, Mr. Radford?”
“I’ve had typhus and lived,” he said. This had happened in Yorkshire, after he and his father had visited an infamous school there. It was a case not unlike the Grumley pauper farm, one his father had prosecuted. They’d both caught the disease—from the children or poison in the air. No one knew exactly how it was transmitted, although nearly everybody believed it was contagious.
His father had fallen ill first, and Radford had taken care of him because they trusted nobody else. Luckily they’d studied the ailment in preparation for the trip. The numerous treatises, reports, and lectures offered contradictory theories and treatments. But one or two contained elements he’d deemed more logical than the others, as well as presenting, along with the usual anecdotal evidence, helpful statistics. He’d adopted and adapted the treatments he believed least likely to kill the patient.
“We haven’t time to argue, my lady,” he said. “Every minute counts.” The odds were, he’d arrived too late as it was. Catching the disease in the first stage was crucial. “Tell me where she is and save me the trouble of finding her.”
“You may be a famous fellow in the criminal courts, Mr. Radford, but you are not a physician,” she said. “You will stay away from my grandniece. For all I know, this is your doing,” she added in a lower voice. “She was with you last week, and she hasn’t been right since.”
It was his fault Clara was in danger of dying. He knew it. But listening to accusations, like berating himself, only wasted time.
He marched out into the staircase hall and shouted, “Davis!”
Two large footmen marched into the staircase hall.
“You’re not Davis,” he said. “Davis! Where the devil are you?”
The maid appeared at the top of the stairs. “You took your time,” she said.
He started for the stairs. A footman lunged at him.
“You, Tom!” the maid cried. “You leave the gentleman be or I’ll mend your manners, see if I don’t.”
Tom retreated.
“Davis!” Lady Exton’s voice, behind him. The voice of authority, before which servants quailed, or at least pretended to, if they knew what was good for them.
Davis, the faithful bulldog, stood her ground. “My lady, I sent for this gentleman on her ladyship’s account, and I expect him to do what needs to be done. With respect, my lady, your doctor didn’t know the ailment when it stared him in the face, and
I only hope he hasn’t signed her ladyship’s death warrant.”
Lady Exton gasped.
The lady’s maid beckoned to Radford. “What are you waiting for? You had better help my lady, or I shall help you to the hereafter well ahead of schedule, sir.”
“Davis, I shall write to Lord Warford about your behavior,” Lady Exton said.
“Yes, my lady, I expect you will. Mr. Radford, why do you dawdle?”
He ran up the stairs.
There was noise outside the room, horrible noise that made Clara’s head throb. But it had been throbbing forever. And the headache had spread to her arms and legs and it was in her stomach, too.
She felt a cool hand on her forehead.
Not Davis’s hand.
Oh, no, not the doctor again so soon . . . He’d said he’d cut her, and she doubted she had the strength to fight him now. She felt so cold . . .
Shivering, she opened her eyes.
“How dare you fall ill,” he said. His voice was low and rough.
Not the doctor.
She tried to focus but it hurt her head. The room was too bright. There was a blinding glare about his head. The voice, though. She knew this voice. She was dreaming, then.
“You’d better get well,” he said. “Davis will murder me if you don’t, and then she’ll hang. You don’t want your faithful maid to hang, my lady, and certainly not on account of a trifling fever.”
“Raven,” she whispered. Yes, she was dreaming. She closed her eyes.
Dr. Marler arrived a short time thereafter. Since Lady Exton lacked the confidence to keep him out of the sickroom, Radford had to deal with him.
He tried reason, but he might as well have talked to a brick. The doctor objected to being questioned—“interrogated,” as he put it—by a lawyer.
But Radford had dealt with recalcitrant judges and criminals. He badgered the witness until the witness began to shout. Radford reminded him this was a sickroom. The doctor stormed out. Radford followed him out into the corridor, still questioning: How many cases of typhus had he treated? Was it a common malady among the upper orders? Was the doctor familiar with Richard Millar’s clinical lectures on the subject?