The Death of Jane Lawrence(66)

Abigail stirred only enough to swallow her broth without aid, then fell into a light sleep, brow furrowed but cheeks pink. Jane left the bedroom door open and paced the hallway, scrubbing her face. Augustine’s salvation was not her responsibility. She repeated that to herself over and over, but she couldn’t shift the weight that had settled onto her shoulders when she saw him with his patients. Should she tell him to quit the surgery entirely? Let Larrenton find a new doctor, retreat to Lindridge Hall to live out the rest of his life, tormented until the last? Then, at least, the sick and injured and dying of Larrenton would be sent a new, more reliable steward. But what a monstrous choice to make, and how terrible that he might agree to it.

Her pacing took her to the door of the study. Inside, hoarded curiosities lined the shelves; how many were silent eulogies to dead magicians? Did they all serve as a constant reminder of the punishment he had earned?

Her hand was halfway to the knob when frantic knocking filled the surgery.

She pulled away as if singed and flew down to the foyer. “Mr. Lowell!” she called out. “Mr. Lowell, come quick!”

But she heard no other footsteps. She was alone; Mr. Lowell was out visiting his family. He wouldn’t be back for another hour at least, perhaps many more.

It was only her.

She hauled open the front door, expecting carnage, a crushed limb, a pock-skinned child, but it was only a man and a woman, frantic but whole. “It’s her son,” the man said. “Illness. Wretched illness. She wanted to wait until morning, but he can’t be moved, and he can’t see. He’s vomiting something horrible. Please, is the doctor in?”

Jane straightened up as much as she could. “He is out,” she said. The woman wailed, and the man swore. Jane hesitated only a moment before saying, “But I can fetch him. Where is the patient, please?”

They gave her directions to their farm as she dragged on her traveling cloak and hat. “Stay here an hour more, if you can,” she told them, mind racing. “Rest, eat something. The doctor’s other assistant will be back, and he can accompany you to the farm, to see what he can do.”

They nodded, and she bundled them into the kitchen, setting the kettle on for them. Her nerves were on fire, alive and roaring, and she rushed up the stairs to check on Abigail as well. She slept soundly now, deeply, and Jane felt almost confident as she raced from the surgery and fetched the neighbor who took Augustine to and from Lindridge Hall and paid him extra to drive out once more.

She had vowed to never again step foot in Lindridge Hall, for a hundred different reasons, but there was no other option. A life hung in the balance, and what was her fear to that?

The road was dry, and they made good time out of town and up into the hills. Even in the warmth of the box, she clutched her cloak tight to her, wondering what she would find. Would Augustine be conscious still, or in a drugged stupor? Would the spirits be at work? Would they leap upon her the moment she crossed the threshold?

The carriage slowed, then stopped, and she alighted, paying the man an extra sum to wait outside for half an hour. His eyes on her, or at least the knowledge that they could be, spurred her to a performance of confidence. She strode across the deadened garden as if she weren’t quaking with terror inside. Her heart grew tight and cold as she came closer and closer to the door, but she made herself press forward, never slowing.

The door came open at her touch, as it had the night of the storm.

The lights were on, brilliant and high, gas flames leaping against their shades. But there was no movement, no sign of Augustine. She thought to call out, but her voice died in her throat. She was too afraid of what might answer.

Instead, she crept up the stairs and made for Augustine’s study. She took each step with care, peering into shadows for any sign of movement, an elongated head, the hem of a nightgown. But everything was as she had left it, and she pressed her hand against the rapid beating of her heart. They had only come to her past midnight or in the cellar; she still had time, even with the heavy night pressing in on every window. The wind had picked up, and the glass groaned in its frames.

The study door was closed, as it had been on their wedding night. Now, though, she did not hesitate. She did not call out, or knock, before she entered.

Augustine did not stir from where he lay, sprawled on the low couch.

Laudanum. His exhaustion and his dread must have led him to dose himself possibly as soon as he got into the carriage, or through the front door.

She went to his side and took his shoulders, shaking him firmly. He groaned, his eyelids fluttering, but he did not wake. “Augustine,” she hissed. “Augustine, wake up.”

“Leave,” he mumbled, barely loud enough for her to hear.

“A patient needs you!” she cried. Around her, Augustine’s bookshelves seemed to prowl and watch. She could picture too clearly Elodie climbing the stairs, blood leaving a trail behind her, blood filling the hallways, blood drowning her—

The front door banged shut below.

Jane leapt away from Augustine, biting down her shriek. That stirred Augustine, at last, and he sat upright, bleary-eyed and bewildered. His gaze fixed on her. “No,” he said. “No, no, you’re not real. You can’t be here. You knew not to come.”

“It’s one of the boys at the Thorndell farm,” she said, coming back to him, seizing his hands and drawing him up from the couch. He staggered after her, pale. “He’s vomiting—he’s gone blind. We must go, quickly.” Outside, the carriage sat, the driver unknowing. Time was passing, and if neither of them emerged, he would leave, and the boy would be without a doctor until the morning.