Page 40 of Lord of Mistrust

She shuddered. Mayhap she should have availed herself of the key, so she could ensure the service door was locked behind her—what if some miscreant was to try the portal and find it open? Duty nagged at her, but the fear that Robert’s life was at risk from a wound he’d gained on her account made her stiffen her resolve.

Whiteley proved himself as able as a sewer rat. He took her through lanes and alleys she’d never seen before, even across gardens, and through gaps in hedges. By the time he slowed his pace, she was thoroughly lost and knew she must ask Robert’s full address if she was ever to find the place by herself.

Whiteley stopped before a large, dark house, three stories high and with a jettied top floor that pushed out over the street. He opened the door with a key, glanced about to ensure they were unobserved, then ushered her in ahead of him.

She found herself in a narrow, flagged passageway, close to the foot of an impressive wooden staircase winding up into the darkness. As Whiteley divested Chloe of her cloak, a middle-aged woman appeared on the half-landing, bearing a candle. On seeing Whiteley, she looked relieved and came hurrying down.

“This is Goody Chandler, Sir Robert’s housekeeper. Goodwife Chandler, Mistress Emmerson is a close friend of your master.”

Chloe nodded as the woman bobbed her a curtsey. “How fares Sir Robert?”

“I don’t know if he’s well enough for visitors, Mistress, if I may make so bold.”

“We’re not here to disturb him—we’re here to relieve you from your post. Mistress Emmerson and I will watch over him and cater to his needs while you rest. You’re no longer needed—we shall shift for ourselves.”

Though Whiteley’s words were polite, there was enough command in his tone to send Goody Chandler hurrying back up the stairs with a muttered, “Thank you, sir.”

Whiteley escorted Chloe up in the housekeeper’s wake. As she vanished to the floor above, he opened a door into a dimly lit room and motioned Chloe inside.

The first thing that hit her was the smell. The chamber was suffused with the foul odor of putrefaction, and it was as much as she could do not to retch. She dashed to the window and flung it wide open.

“Doctor Bower said the night air could be injurious to the invalid’s health,” Whiteley reprimanded her gently.

“Skimble skamble! How can anyone feel well with such a foul stench around them? Oh, merciful heaven, Robert!”

She seized a candle from a sconce by the window and held it low over the bed. Robert’s face was pale and pinched, and his mouth hung slack. His blond hair was dark with sweat, and he lay flat on his back in the bed, like one already dead. Whiteley took a cloth and dabbed at Robert’s forehead.

She grabbed it from him. “I’ll do that.” Fear strangled her voice, but she needed to be close and to be doing something useful.

Robert was not asleep—his eyes were open but focused on nothing, and his lips were moving, though no words could be discerned.

She turned to Whiteley and asked softly, “What, exactly, did the doctor say?”

“That Robert has a high fever, and that he wants to amputate the arm lest the infection spread.”

She stroked the cloth over Robert’s face and tried to see if there was any hint of recognition in his glassy eyes. “Robert? Robert—’tis I, Chloe. You will come through this, sirrah. I didn’t save you from a leaden ball just to see you lose a limb or die from lack of due care.”

There were tears in her eyes as she stepped back and wrung the cloth out over a basin. “I think Sir Robert would thank us if we could save his arm. Master Whiteley, is there a garden here?”

“Aye, a well-stocked one.” He looked puzzled.

She unsheathed her knife. “Let’s go and see what there is that I can use. Can you get me a lantern and a basket?”

“I can, but why, Mistress?”

“There may be some feverfew. We won’t know unless we look, will we?” She didn’t mean to sound impatient, but she’d never known fear like this, not even when she’d stared down the barrel of a traitor’s gun. Robert would either die or lose his arm. Neither scenario was acceptable.

As soon as they were outside, she scouted about until she found the plant she sought. Tearing off several stalks, she then spotted a rank of lavender bushes. The flowers were long since dead, but the leaves would do, and there were a few late roses, too, emitting a powerful scent. Gathering as many aromatic herbs and flowers as she could, she then gestured to Whiteley to hold the lantern for her so she could investigate the espaliers along the garden wall.

Crouching down, she examined the fallen fruit. Eventually, she found a couple of maggot-ridden pears and picked them up gingerly using a fig leaf to avoid embedding her fingers in the decaying flesh.

Her next port of call was Robert’s kitchen, where she bade Whiteley make up the fire, but quietly, so as not to disturb Goodwife Chandler or the other servants. A pot of water was set over the flames to heat. She worked at speed, tearing up the scented petals and herbs. “A chafing dish, if you please, sir.”

Whiteley hastened to do her bidding. “I understand you want the feverfew for a tisane, to cool him. But why the lavender? And the rotten fruit?”

“You men have such a base sense of smell,” she complained. “I wish to sweeten the room and banish the foul odors. The fruit is for the maggots. To eat the dead flesh around the wound, if there is any. I know not if it will work but if it does, it may reduce the infection.”

“Why does a young lady, gently brought up like you, put any store by the remedies of country folk?”