Page 94 of Again, Scoundrel

She inhaled and let her nostrils take in the scent of wildflowers and the sea. Something so beautiful could only be a boon for health.

And besides, as one of her favorite midwives had said, “Only dimwits try to fix what they can’t damn see. Open the drapes.”

Violet couldn’t agree more as she watched the golden rays of the sun light up the green rolling hills of Kent. Rosehips was gorgeous. But there was no time to waste in admiring the view. It was time to work.

She turned back to Darius and gave him a cursory, visual examination. She wouldn’t touch him until her hands were clean, but she would learn what she could while she waited.

Williams had told her that seven days ago Darius had been out with the tenants, which was a normal turn of events. The man was not an absentee landowner. He’d come in for supper afterwards, but then claimed a headache and skipped the evening meal, retiring to his bed instead. The Marquess had called the surgeon then, who paid a first visit to Darius five days ago. The man diagnosed Darius with having taken the miasmata.

Violet shook her head in disgust. She could imagine the old geezer now, quoting Hippocrates and saying Darius had taken the vapors because he’d been out in the country with the poor. Being poor was not synonymous with being ill or dirty, although Violet knew a surgeon for the aristocracy would never share that belief.

I hope he at least examined him properly, she thought and drummed her fingers against her thigh impatiently.

The surgeon had prescribed rest in a closed, darkened room to keep the miasma out, and arsenic for anemia if Darius did not begin eating again. And, of course, he let his blood.

That evening, Darius developed the fever, which grew steadily worse for four days before spiking yesterday. He then sank into a delirium, causing his father to call for the surgeon once more, and for Alistair. And finally for the vicar who would be arriving at any moment.

Violet shook her head in frustration.

Miasma, indeed. And arsenic. And bloodletting!

The surgeon was as likely to kill Darius as he was to help him. Bloodletting had been out of favor for years now, as had arsenic treatment. To stop those two treatments alone was worth the journey from Surrey.

But what was causing the fever?

She could rule out smallpox, as the man had no visible rash. Typhoid was unlikely—no one mentioned abdominal pain or vomiting. Cholera too would cause him to cast up his accounts regularly.

That left tuberculosis, diphtheria, and influenza as the most likely culprits. She doubted tuberculosis, as it was a wasting disease, and no one had mentioned him coughing.

Influenza or diphtheria?

Diphtheria was always probable, but Williams had reported no outbreaks of the scourge in this or any surrounding villages. She did recall one of her patients in London had told her of a wave of the deadly disease passing through the country not that long ago though.

The “children’s plague” as it was called, for it tended to take the young and vulnerable in just a few days. A bad strain of influenza would as well, but she suspected diphtheria, especially if he had lesions. She’d seen that form of the disease once before, in New York.

She kept studying Darius from afar, wanting badly to examine him. If he had either influenza or diphtheria, she ought to cover her face as well as continually wash her hands. It was still unknown exactly how the disease spread, so it would be best to take every precaution.

She thought of Alistair sitting in the enclosed room, holding his brother’s hand and shook her head. He’d put himself at risk. Likely, the whole family had.

But disease transmission could be unpredictable, and the Marquess and Marchioness had not fallen ill. So, there was hope. And she still didn’t know the exact cause of the fever. It may not be transmissible at all.

She wished she knew more about the surgeon. Had he checked Darius’s mouth and throat for the gray membrane that was the most common sign of diphtheria? She would have thought it likely he had, but then again, he’d diagnosed miasma of all things, and the second time he’d visited, he’d pronounced Darius a lost cause.

He may not have examined him closely at all.

Asshead.

And then there were the sores. The lesions Alistair had mentioned on Darius’s legs and chest that brought to mind the infection she’d seen on the foot of her patient in New York.

She pulled the chair close to the window and sat, drumming her fingers impatiently against its arm. Where was the footman?

The footman shook her awake sometime later. “Miss,” he whispered. “Miss, wake up.”

Violet startled awake.

“I’ve brought what you asked for, Miss.”

“Oh,” Violet said and took in the wide eyes of the young man. “Out, out.”